


Suffer the Consequence

by Atypical16



Series: Proper Discipline [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1960s Girl Power, Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Choking, Conditioning, Corporal Punishment, Cruelty, Dominance, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Humiliation, Loss of Virginity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Games, Period-Typical Sexism, Power Imbalance, Restraints, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Some Plot, Spanking, Verbal Abuse, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11571588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: Hortensia, a wayward student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is disciplined by Headmaster Riddle.





	1. Defiance

_Taste the whip, in love not given lightly_  
_Taste the whip, now plead for me_  
Velvet Underground, Venus in Furs (1967)

I: Defiance 

_11 February 1962_

That stupid, traitorous Fawley—Hortensia should have known that dumb girl would grass on her. When Briana Fawley had joined the Witches’ Legion earlier this year, Hortensia had been suspicious of her for seemingly no reason. Now she knew why: Fawley was no good. Hortensia was angrier with herself for not going with her intuition. 

Professor Slughorn clearly didn’t know what to do with the situation. He sat at his desk, across from the two girls, and rubbed his walrus mustache. “Well, thank you for telling me, Briana. You are excused. Hortensia, please remain seated.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fawley in her annoying wispy voice, rising from her seat. Hortensia gave her the strongest glare she could muster, but predictably, Fawley kept her ice-blue eyes cast downward as she left the room. 

“I’m not in a good position right now, my dear,” Slughorn sighed as soon as the door closed behind her. “You’re one of my best students—that Draught of Peace was flawless! However, this ‘Witches’ Legion’ has kicked up quite a fuss. What was your motive for creating it?” 

Hortensia cleared her throat, confidence growing. She could talk her way out of almost anything, especially to Slughorn, who was generally unwilling to punish Slytherin students. “You see, sir, I don’t agree with the restrictions on witches partaking in certain activities here at Hogwarts. Those who control them seem to think we are only here to catch the attention of wizards, but that’s not always the case. For example, many want to enter the Ministry, become Healers or even Aurors. But how can we, if the Dueling Club excludes all witches on principle, even those with more magical talent than the wizards?” 

Slughorn nodded, reached over, and patted her hand. “Yes, I agree that it’s a bit unfair, my dear, but you realize that ganging up and tossing hexes at male students at random and sabotaging Quidditch practices are not effective in getting your point across?” 

She scratched her neck and looked away, shifting uncomfortably. “We may have gotten a bit…carried away at times, but it succeeded in bringing about the general message, which is that we shall not be so easily dismissed.”

“I take it that you’re not planning to stop, then?”

“We will not hurt anyone else,” she quickly assured him. “I will no longer allow that. We never intended to do harm. We only wish for our voices to be heard loud and clear.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded in that,” Slughorn told her with a wry smile. “Perhaps we can start thinking about dismantling the witches’ group, eh?” 

Although his suggestion was given gently, kindly, it incensed Hortensia all the same. She wanted to correct him, to tell him that it was called the Witches’ _Legion_ and it was much more than just the silly group he clearly thought it was. However, he, like many of the other professors, often discounted it from the start and arguing wouldn’t change that. She settled on simply shaking her head. 

Slughorn let out another sigh, this time with some voice in it. “You see, my dear, the problem is that other students, particularly our young wizards, are getting frustrated, and we need them in sound mind. Now with Leach in office, I’m afraid Hogwarts will be shifting to a more…forceful opposition of current regulations. We need our wizards in top shape.”

“But we wish to back Hogwarts up, too,” Hortensia protested, wringing her hands together. “Perhaps not in combat, but if you take our brothers, fathers, sons, and husbands away, whom do you expect will keep our society afloat? Witches will have to work and take on a wizard’s role while they defend, like they’ve done in Grindelwald’s war! Why not give us the tools to do so?”

“You’ve got to ask the Magical Education Department, my dear, not me!” he answered, slightly flustered now. “Write a letter to the Head, Abraxas Malfoy, maybe he’ll listen to you. But please, for the sake of Hogwarts, you must dismantle the group!”

She stared stone-faced at him, refusing to agree. As much as she wanted to avoid trouble, she could not agree to give up the Witches’ Legion. They were the forerunners of a national movement, she could feel it in her heart. 

“Well, alright then,” said Slughorn dejectedly, rolling up the piece of parchment Fawley had given him. “I suppose I’ve got to bring you to the headmaster.”

Hortensia’s mouth dropped open before she blurted without thinking, “But he’ll expel me!” No one was taken to the headmaster unless it was for serious misconduct. Last year, Ferdinand Church had been sent for luring his nemesis, some other Gryffindor boy, into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night and had never returned. Of course, rumors were flying that the mysterious headmaster—who hadn’t been seen outside his office since 1957 after being appointed from Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—had murdered Church somehow and Vanished his remains. That was later squandered when Church’s younger sister, Halcyon, had revealed that he’d simply been expelled. 

“Well, I’ll suggest that he not do so, as you’re doing well in lessons,” Slughorn replied, standing up and picking up the scroll, “but ultimately the decision is his. Come along.”

With a heavy sigh of her own, Hortensia rose, smoothed down her skirt and robes, and followed him out of the Potions classroom. 

The Headmaster’s Tower was on the seventh floor, so she had plenty of time to ruminate over what her fate might be. If she was facing expulsion, she wasn’t sure how to recover from such a huge blow. Her parents wouldn’t be fussed—her mum would push her even more to find a wealthy pureblood boy to marry, and her father ran off in ’55. Hortensia, on the other hand, could think of nothing worse than being barred from education. How much would her family name pardon her?

 _Stupid Fawley_ , she seethed silently, _and stupid me for assuming all witches are trustworthy by default, when a great lot of them are lying sneaks._

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at the great stone gargoyle guarding the office. Slughorn leaned in and mumbled the password in barely above a whisper, but Hortensia managed to catch it: “Merope.” 

_Who on Earth is Merope?_ She wondered, but there was no time to dwell; the gargoyle moved aside and Slughorn was guiding her to step on the moving spiral staircase. It took the pair to a small platform, where they faced huge oak double-doors. Slughorn rapped on the left one twice. 

“Enter,” a low voice called from inside. 

The doors swung open and they entered a grand circular room adored with many portraits of old wizards, half of them dozing since it was nearing ten o’clock at night. Hortensia recognized one as the previous headmaster Armando Dippet. His nightcap was sliding down his face, a spot of drool leaking from his gaping mouth. On an elaborate golden shelf in the center of all the portraits was the Sorting Hat, also snoozing. 

Slughorn nudged her to take a seat, so she sat down on one of the velvet-coated chairs in front of the enormous desk and assumed the position of repentant student: rigid posture, hands folded in lap, eyes on knees pressed together. 

Meanwhile, she was trying to catch a peek at Headmaster Riddle, who she had never seen before in her life. He’d been appointed headmaster the same year as Hortensia’s first at Hogwarts, so she hadn’t taken a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson under his instruction like the sixth and seventh-years had. He did not give speeches at the ceremonies, leaving it up to Slughorn and Septima Vector, Head of Ravenclaw, along with the Sortings. In fact, he never stepped foot in the Great Hall, which the younger ones never saw as odd as the older ones. According to them, he had been a very strict professor. 

“I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour, Tom,” Slughorn was saying, standing behind Hortensia as if she was about make a run for it. “But I’ve just been alerted that Miss Travers here is the ringleader of this witches’ group that’s been causing a bit of mayhem lately.” 

Hortensia wrinkled her nose at the word “ringleader,” as if he was implying that she was running a circus. 

“I do not recommend expulsion, as her marks and magical ability are above average for a fifth-year, but perhaps you could…er…” He trailed off, hesitant to give input to the headmaster, which was a bit odd considering he’d once been Riddle’s professor. Slughorn often praised him tremendously, claiming he was the most brilliant wizard of the 20th century.

However, the 20th century was only a little over halfway through, so there was likely an underlying cause to Slughorn’s reverence to the headmaster. That was of little concern to Hortensia as long as he didn’t expel her. She closed her eyes, wishing the next few minutes away, that she was back in her dormitory and the whole thing was over. 

“The evidence is this speech here,” Slughorn continued. “It’s cleverly written and she makes a fair point, but I’m simply worried she’ll incite a riot.”

Out of her peripheral vision, Hortensia saw a white, long-fingered hand extending outward. Slughorn placed the scroll in the hand and a second later, she heard Riddle opening it. She wondered what he was thinking as he read the words scrawled in her script, the next speech:

_Ladies of Hogwarts! Let us meet in the Come and Go Room at seven o’clock in the evening of Friday next, 18 February, for our own defense lessons! Not against the Dark Arts, no, but rather these boys who think they can decide our fates at will! Physical aggression and emotional manipulation will no longer be tolerated by the strong, capable witches at Hogwarts! This will be henceforth treated as not a debate but the final verdict!_

“You wrote this, Miss Travers?” 

Feeling his eyes burning into the top of her head, Hortensia raised her eyes and finally looked at the headmaster full-on. She was surprised to see how young he was—mid-thirties, perhaps. She’d seen his Special Services Award he’d earned as a student in 1943, but since maths was not her strong suit, 1943 seemed like ages ago. 

Riddle’s skin was very pale, giving him a slightly withdrawn appearance, and his dark eyes had an odd, reddish tint, but overall, he was supremely attractive. Despite his age, he had a clear aura of command, a tight hold on himself and all of Hogwarts. He certainly didn’t look like someone named Tom. His gaze was piecing through her, as if he was inspecting the dark recesses of her mind. 

“Yes, sir.” Hortensia’s voice, raspy from non-use, sounded terrible. 

He stared at her for at least another few minutes, Slughorn shifting awkwardly behind her. She lowered her eyes to her knees again, unable to take the intensity. 

“Surely you see the danger in teaching a bunch of emotionally-charged young witches jinxes and hexes to use against other students, Miss Travers?” 

Hortensia shook her head defiantly, although she didn’t dare look up.

“She gave me the same answer when I proposed a similar question,” Slughorn offered. 

The headmaster let out a breath and said to him, “You may leave, Horace. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will take care of it now.”

“No problem at all, Tom. Goodnight.” 

Hortensia turned to look at Slughorn wistfully, wishing she could follow him out.

 _“Incendio,”_ Riddle said casually, pointing his bone-white wand at the parchment in front of him. She watched as the flames turned it into ash, fists clenching. Then she blinked and it was gone, as if nothing had been there. 

“I’m going to tell you kindly once more,” he said quietly, and she could hear a slight trace of suppressed fury. “Cease this ridiculous nonsense and return to your proper place as pureblood witch, or suffer the consequence. Is that clear, Miss Travers?” 

“That depends on what the consequence entails, sir,” she replied in a steady, calm tone despite her shaking hands. 

Riddle stared at her in disbelief. It was both frightening and satisfying. “You dare challenge me, little girl?”

She gave him her best good-girl smile and shook her head. “Not at all, sir. I’m merely asking for clarification.”

“It would be irrelevant if you’d just do as your told,” he snapped, but then he switched tones and gave her his own charming smile. “Let’s make an agreement. You will cease the group, and I will let you go without punishment. Not even a single point from Slytherin since I’m partial to the House.”

Hortensia knew he had been a Slytherin as a student. Prefect, Head Boy, model wizard, according to Slughorn. Supposedly, his mother was a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. 

Hortensia also knew that if he was going to expel her, he would have done so by now. He didn’t want to expel her, she realized, possibly because of her own pure, Slytherin-descended bloodline. Students from the Sacred 28 families had quite special status at Hogwarts and, in turn, the Ministry of Magic. Even after the mayhem resulting from the Legion, she was still an asset to the school. 

Ever so stubborn, she shook her head once more. “I cannot agree, sir. I shall suffer the consequence.”

They held eye contact for another minute, him glaring and her trying with all her might not to look away. _We shall not be dismissed so easily,_ she told herself, the Legion’s mantra.

Abruptly, the headmaster stood and she flinched before she could control herself. “Very well, then,” he said quietly, dangerously. “Please place your wand on the desk, Miss Travers.” He was very tall, she realized. His seat at the desk had deceived her.

“W—which spell will you be using, sir?” she asked, slowly sliding her wand out of her robes. 

He smiled down at her, but it was more condescending than anything else. “Silly girl, if you followed the rules at Hogwarts, you would know professors are forbidden to punish students with magic. I’ll not risk my position for your insolence. Now place your wand on the desk.” 

She obeyed, catching herself before slamming it down, wondering just how on Earth did a student face punishment if not expulsion, House points deduction, or any type of magic. There were also lines and detention, but Hortensia wasn’t counting on either of those two. 

“Now follow me. Disobey any command I give henceforth, and you will be expelled. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, slightly distracted. What in Merlin’s name was he planning on doing without magic?

He turned, took a few steps away from the desk, and opened a narrow door she hadn’t noticed before. The portraits that were awake were eyeing him curiously, as if this was the first time they’d seen this, which awakened tiny alarm bells in Hortensia’s head. The panic started when she entered the room.

Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness—there was only one window, and it was covered in a thick curtain. On the far side of the room, there was wardrobe and a four-poster bed like the ones in the dormitories, except double the size and covered in a dark green quilt. Next to the bed was a fireplace, empty, with three lit candles on the mantel, casting the tiny room in a golden yellow glow. The small desk underneath the window was covered in parchment and thick books with yellow pages. They scented the room like the Hogwarts Library, which would have been calming if Hortensia wasn’t frantically wondering what she was doing in there. 

The door slammed shut behind her and Riddle cast a nonverbal spell that shot bright red light at it. The light branched out, covering the circular walls with grid-like beams. It burned her eyes and she covered them with her palms, ducking her head. 

A cold hand wrapped around her wrist and pulled her forward. Her eyes snapped open and through the fizzling red spots in front of her, she made out a large, high-backed leather armchair in the corner between the fireplace and door, where the headmaster seemed to be leading her. 

He sat on the chair, knees about a foot apart, and stared up at her, still clutching her wrist. She hadn’t the slightest clue what was going on or what to do. Then he yanked her wrist and kicked out her leg from under her. 

“Augh!” She tripped, trying desperately to catch her balance, but he grabbed both of her arms and pulled over his knees. She turned her head just in time to avoid her face smashing into the arm of the chair. He held her around the waist to keep her from rolling off. 

“Ah, there we are,” Riddle said calmly, as if there wasn’t a 16-year-old girl draped over his lap, ready to have a panic episode. _This can’t be happening,_ Hortensia thought desperately. _I’m having a bizarre, convoluted dream and I shall wake up now…NOW!_

She did not. Her arms were being pulled behind her, wrists pinned together. Her breathing was labored and her eyes were wide in anticipation, even though the extent of her view was the dark wooden floor, a bedpost, the tail end of Riddle’s robes, and a shiny loafer. 

“So quiet you are now,” he teased, holding her still by her wrists. “Are you finally learning your lesson, Hortensia? See, hardly anyone possesses such great magical power like I do, but there a couple of things handled better the muggle way. Not that I expect you to have encountered this in your privileged upbringing, but no matter, I am ever so glad to punish you properly. _Accio belt!”_

To Hortensia’s horror, the wardrobe door swung open and a black leather belt flew toward them. Riddle caught it in the air and released her arms, which had gone entirely numb. She felt something—the belt, presumably—slide across her back as it was being folded, and then…

Cold fingertips were sliding up her inner thigh, taking her robes and skirt with them. Slowly, silently, the headmaster was running his hand up her leg, eliciting chills and goosebumps across her whole body. As soon as it met her knickers, he pulled up her robes and skirt to reveal them. Before she could form a single thought, he’d taken the belt and brought it swiftly down upon her backside. 

SMACK! 

“Augh!” Hortensia yelled in anguish. SMACK! Jolts of white-hot pain were shooting through her legs and up her spine as welts rose on the soft, sensitive skin. 

Again and again he whipped her as tears poured out of her eyes and she yelped in agony. She tried to squirm away, but he had one hand on her throat, pulling her taut, while the other dropped the belt onto the floor. Against her stomach, something she hadn’t felt before: the erection between his legs. 

“Oh, Merlin!” she cried, breaths ragged and cheeks streaked with tears. “Professor, _please_!” 

“More?” he chuckled close to her ear, running his fingers over the welts on her rear, causing them to sting even worse. 

“No! Please, it hurts!”

He responded by smacking her bottom hard as she let out a roar of pain. He was laughing, she realized, at her anguish. He was enjoying it. 

“I hate you,” she hissed before she knew what she was saying. 

Riddle clutched her jaw, pulling her closer. “That’s a pity, darling, because I’m rather fond of you.”

His other hand was caressing her now, providing cool relief to her red, swollen skin. Despite her anger and fear, Hortensia felt her muscles relaxing, her eyes closing. Gently in sharp contrast to his previous handling of her, he released her throat, stroking her hair away from her neck. Her cheek rested against the leather of the armchair as her body sagged, exhausted. 

Meanwhile, he had slipped his thumb slowly between her skin and knickers, pulling them down. Her mind was in uproar—did she dislike it, was she averse to it? Her stillness was a telling clue. 

Her knickers slid over her rear and down her thighs until she was exposed to him. For one aching moment, he didn’t touch her at all except for the hand resting in her hair. Then she felt cold fingertips right _there_ , on her entrance, which was starting to grow wet with desire. 

_This is wrong,_ her mind was screaming. _He shouldn’t be touching you in this manner!_ However, her body was singing a different tune: her back arched and her hips tilted, trying to get her closer to his touch. 

“Do you hate me now, darling?” he asked softly, “or have you changed your mind?” Very faintly, he dragged his fingertips back and forth over her entrance.

“No, sir,” she whispered, her breath quickening again but this time with heavy arousal. 

“Speak up, Hortensia,” he commanded, bunching her hair into his fist and pulling her head away from the chair. 

“No, I don’t hate you, sir,” she choked out, suppressing a moan as he lightly rubbed her, sending tingles of pleasure all the way down to her toes. 

“Good.” Without further ado, he plunged two fingers inside of her, his knuckles slamming into the slick surrounding skin. 

Hortensia scrunched up her face and let out a howl as she felt a painful, snapping sensation inside. No one had ever touched her that way. The furthest she’d gotten was letting Marcus Rosier squeeze her breasts while rubbing his clothed erection against her. It hadn’t been satisfying in the least, but he’d paid her the ten galleons and kept quiet about it as promised. 

Riddle paid no attention to her reaction, sliding his fingers in and out as little cries escaped from the pit of her throat. As soon as it morphed from excruciating pain to building pleasure, he pulled his hand away. 

She couldn’t turn her head to see what he was doing. Not having his hands on her was unbearable, even though he still had a hold on her hair. Then he answered her question another second later: “You taste so sweet. You’ve not been punished enough, have you?”

“No, sir,” she breathed, wishing for him to continue touching her. He did, but not in the way she anticipated. Without warning, he gave her a hard shove and she slid off his lap, crashing to the floor. 

“Ouch!” she cried, frowning in confusion as she sat straight, hastily pulled her knickers up, and rubbed her hip, which had slammed the hardest against the wood. 

Riddle was unconcerned, watching her intently. His face was blank, but she could see a gleam of lust in his eyes. “Rise, Miss Travers, and remove your robes, blouse, and skirt.”

Hortensia was not ashamed of her body. On the contrary, she was proud of her appearance, knowing many a wizard found her attractive. Tall, with a dancer’s figure, smooth auburn hair, and large dark eyes, she was either an instant enemy of other girls or they gravitated toward her. This was an advantage; the Legion may not have gotten so far if she’d been plain. Her appearance and blood status were tools to garner attention easily. 

That did not mean, however, that she would strip down in front of a man more than twice her age, the _headmaster of Hogwarts_ no less. This madness needed to end. Sitting on the floor, looking up at him, she shook her head. 

His lips tightened as he raised his dark eyebrows—she had angered him again. “Insolent brat. I said _rise._ ” 

“I will not, sir,” Hortensia challenged. At this point, she was sure she’d be expelled after all of this, simply for being a risk. If anyone grew suspicious of the headmaster’s “punishment,” he would likely be looked upon unfavorably if not outright sacked. 

He did not threaten to expel her. Instead, he stood, reached down, grabbed another fistful of her hair, and yanked her up, forcing her to stand. Eyes stinging with tears again, she gasped as he pushed her face-first against the wall, his fist pulling her hair at the root. A tiny whimper escaped as he pressed into her from behind, pinning her to the cold stone wall. 

Since he was several inches taller, his mouth didn’t quite match up to her ear, so he hissed the words in her hair. “You dare defy me, you insubordinate little bitch? You’d better think twice about that.”

Something poked her in the cheek. She cast her eyes down and saw that he was pointing his wand at her. “I thought punishing students with magic was forbidden at Hogwarts, sir?” she blurted recklessly. 

“You know what else is forbidden at Hogwarts?” he asked in a pleasant tone, pushing her legs open with his knee and lifting it until it fit snugly against her knickers. “Trying to seduce the headmaster to get out of trouble. Oh yes, the Magical Education Department won’t look so fondly on that, my dear. Who will they believe? He who rules this entire castle or a filthy little slag with a history of causing ruckus?” 

“My family is more respected…” Hortensia knew she should just shut up, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Is that so?” Riddle snickered, rubbing his leg slowly back and forth against the heated, damp spot between her legs. “Which one of them will fight on your behalf? The father who left you or the mother who wishes to sell you off to the highest bidder?”

“I hate you, Professor Riddle,” she replied viciously, but she couldn’t keep herself from rocking slightly against his leg as he chuckled in her hair, knowing he’d gotten her. She felt the bulge in his trousers, this time on her raw, aching backside. Suddenly he released her, and she quickly turned to face him. 

He pointed his wand between her eyes. “Would you like to see what will happen if you disobey me again?” 

“No, sir.” 

He flashed her a sardonic smile as he took a seat back in the armchair. “Good girl, you’re finally learning. Now remove your robes, skirt, and blouse.” With a lazy flick of his wand, he conjured a bottle of firewhiskey and a glass filled with ice. “Take your time, darling. I’ve got all night.”

Wondering vaguely what time it was and kicking herself for forgetting to put her watch back on after her bath, Hortensia unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off, along with her skirt. Standing uncomfortably in her bra, knickers, knee-high socks, and Mary Janes, she held her clothes neatly in her arms, unsure what to do with them since her mother had beat it into her to always hang them immediately after undressing. 

Riddle took his time assessing her, looking her up and down as he sipped his drink. “Come here,” he told her, setting the glass down on the small table between the chair and fireplace. 

When she was standing toe-to-toe in front of him, he took the clothes out of her arms and tossed them carelessly over the arm of the chair. They fell into a heap in front of the door, and now Hortensia was completely exposed, her arms hanging stiffly at her sides. 

He reached up, slid his index finger under her bra, and snapped it against her chest. “This too. Take it off.”

A blush was starting to bloom on her cheeks as she reached behind her and unhooked the bra. He snatched it away and tossed it in the general direction of her other clothes before seizing her hips and pulling her on his lap. She managed to throw her palms out against his chest just in time, narrowly avoiding a collision. 

Her bare breasts were inches away from his face, but that seemed to be the goal, that and grabbing her bottom and rocking her roughly back and forth over his erection. It shouldn’t have felt so good; she didn’t want this, but damn, it felt _wonderful_ and she couldn’t stop, especially when he wrapped her knickers around his fist. They dug painfully into her battered skin, but they were also hitting that spot, the little pink nub Hortensia spent many a night playing with in her dorm after the other girls had fallen asleep. 

Amid her heavy breaths was the sound of fabric ripping and the pressure on her skin was released. Letting go of the knickers, he held her breast, sucking on the sensitive flesh, leaving crescents of dark purple against milky-white. Her head was tilting back…until a sharp pain jolted her out of the trance. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said softly, straightening up and burying his face into her neck, his hand on her back, pulling her closer. His breath tickled the spot below her ear, curling her fingers and toes as his long fingers slid deeper inside of her. The pad of his thumb was pressed against the sweet spot, gently stroking it. 

_“Ohhh,”_ she gasped as the pain dissipated, replaced by intense, unyielding pleasure. All else—the time, her clothes, this insane circumstance—was unimportant as a deep, hot pressure built up inside of her. “Oh, Professor!”

“Yes, you like that, don’t you, you naughty little thing?” Riddle was growling into her neck. “Come on, pretty girl, come for me…”

A minute later, her muscles clenched against his fingers as she threw her head back and let out a howl. Unlike the last one, this was a howl of glorious release. “Oh, Professor,” she sighed, her voice hoarse. Stars were dancing in front of her eyes and her ears were ringing. 

He raised his fluid-covered fingers to his mouth and briefly ran them through his parted lips. Hortensia watched until she collapsed against him before she could restrain herself, burying her face into the thick forest of his dark wavy hair. He simply lifted her up and threw her on the bed like a rag doll. 

“Lie on your back with your legs open,” he commanded as the mattress creaked underneath her. “Spread yourself for me. That’s it, slut. Give yourself to me.”

As her fingers pulled her slick folds apart, she lifted her head slightly and saw that he’d unbuttoned his trousers to stroke himself. Before she could catch a glimpse of it, he climbed on top of her, pinned her wrists to the bed, and drove himself into her. 

She thought she was prepared, yet another wave of pain spread through her. Thankfully, it didn’t last long. Now Riddle was the one breathing heavily as he thrust into her. His mouth met hers, and she tasted her own fluid and alcohol on his tongue, a bittersweet combination. 

“Oh, please don’t stop!” she cried, forcing her eyes to stay open and meet his. Oddly, the eye contact prompted him to thrust faster and harder. 

“You like it, darling? Yes? Hortensia…”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Wonderful, colorful spots were bouncing in front of her eyes, the ringing starting back up…the pressure was building…

Unfortunately, he finished before she could have a second orgasm, but she was so thrilled with the first that it hardly mattered. He lay on top of her for a moment, catching his breath, before pulling out. With one hand adjusting his trousers, he spread her apart with the other, watching the hot liquid dripping out. Then he abruptly stood straight and turned away. She took the opportunity to trot across the room and grab her clothes. 

His fluid was leaking down her legs and since her knickers were torn, she hadn’t a barrier to absorb it. Squeezing her slippery inner thighs together, she hurriedly dressed and picked up her knickers with the intention of mending them as soon as her wand was back in her custody. However, Riddle had other plans. 

“Those are mine now,” he told her, snatching them out of her hand and tossing them on the armchair. “Stay there for a moment.” He pointed his wand at the door and the red grids appeared for a moment before dissipating. 

Wobbly from exhaustion, Hortensia stood in place and watched him poke his head into the office, where snoring of various octaves filled the air. Riddle waved a hand, beckoning her forward. 

While the office still had the same ray of moonlight flooding through the window, it seemed much different now, peaceful and less intimidating. Everyone in the portraits had nightcaps on, wrapped in quilted cocoons. One even had on a pair of earmuffs. Hortensia couldn’t blame him; the headmaster clearly hadn’t bothered to light a fire in a while. The room was as cold as outside. 

He held the oak door open as she tiptoed through it. Once it was closed again, they stood on the platform, simply looking at each other. The vast circular window above the staircase acted as a spotlight, casting them in shadow, though she could see that he was studying her, not with a lewd expression but one of ambivalence. She wondered what he was thinking of so intently. 

“I’d rather not have to explain why I’ve kept you in my office until 1:32 in the morning,” Riddle said at last, “so you are to conjure the Room of Requirement and spend the remainder of the night there.”

“The Room…?”

“The Come and Go Room,” he clarified impatiently. “Where you hold those absurd little meetings. Conjure a bedroom and go to sleep. Return to your dormitory at a reasonable hour.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, wondering if she should take a step toward the staircase. 

He raised his wand, causing her to flinch terribly. Instead of pointing it at her and uttering an incantation, however, he tapped the top of her head twice. A chilly, tingling sensation spread through her skull, as if he was pouring a glass of cold water over her head. 

“It’s a Disillusionment Charm,” he explained. “It will wear off in less than an hour. However, just because no one can see you doesn’t mean they can’t hear you, so you must move as quietly as possible. If that clear?”

Hortensia nodded, but then she remembered that he couldn’t see her either. She was quite grateful to be invisible, as she must’ve looked a complete mess. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. 

“You are dismissed.”

She was at the bottom of the stairwell, her hand reaching for the door to the gargoyle, when he spoke again. “Miss Travers…am I correct in assuming I won’t be hearing about these ridiculous Legion meetings any longer?” 

She smirked, her face tilted up and staring boldly into his eyes, jaw set. He was gazing back at her, and for an absurd moment it felt like he _could_ see her, for he appeared to be staring right into her eyes. Not only seeing her face but reading her thoughts. The smug look dropped from her face as she silently scolded herself for being paranoid. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well,” Riddle said before turning and opening the door to his office. She climbed over the sleeping gargoyle and crept down the corridor, trying to get out of the Headmaster’s Tower as soon and silently as possible. 

Once in the seventh-floor corridor, the journey was considerably less daunting, as the Come and Go Room was right around the corner. The residual fear and anxiety from the ordeal lifted slightly, and immediately her mind flooded with racing thoughts and questions, the primary being what in hell had just transpired? Did the headmaster punish all the students in that manner? That answer was a no—firstly, she had never heard of a witch in all five years of Hogwarts who’d been sent to his office. Also, she recalled the confused faces in the portrait when he’d led her away. 

Hortensia was conflicted: had she enjoyed his brutal treatment? Her logical, prideful side was saying of course not, but that was overruled by the tingling between her legs as she replayed the memory. 

On the subject of memory, she had thought Riddle would modify hers to squash any risk of anyone finding out, but she realized as she reached the corridor of the Come and Go Room that he already knew she would never speak of it. No one could _ever_ find out that Hortensia Travers, proud and strong leader of the Witches’ Legion, had gotten whipped and berated by Headmaster Riddle, and _enjoyed_ it. 

Yes, she had thoroughly enjoyed it. She wasn’t sure at first, but now that she’d gotten a moment to think about it, she had wanted it from beginning to end. 

After pacing three times, repeating in her head _I need a single bedroom_ , the door to the Come and Go Room appeared, leading to a tiny room with a bed and desk identical to those in the dormitories. The bed was tantalizingly inviting, and she longed to collapse upon it and close her eyes, but there were too many things bouncing around her head. She had to write a particular one out before it flew away from her for good. 

She sat at the desk, where a pot of ink, quill, and parchment were waiting for her. Aches were blossoming from her sore, sticky legs and rear, but she ignored it all, dipping the quill in the ink and writing furiously: 

_Ladies of Hogwarts! Let us meet in the fourth floor of the Astronomy Tower at ten o’clock in the evening of Friday next…_

Yes, Riddle had been correct in assuming he wouldn’t find out about her ridiculous Legion meetings, because Hortensia was going to trim them down of untrustworthy members and bury them further in secrecy. Under no circumstance was she going to cease the Witches’ Legion, not when it brought her so much power and potential to bring change. 

And if she was caught and sent to the headmaster again, well, she would have to suffer the consequence. She wasn’t exactly opposed to this. In fact, to be perfectly honest, she was looking forward to it.

*********


	2. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is the most fucked-up. Read at your own risk.

II: Punishment 

_15 May 1962_

James Dorsey, the Hogwarts Head Boy of the 1961-1962 school year, was holding Hortensia by the upper arm and marching her down the corridor. She thought he was taking her to Professor Slughorn, but they passed the Potions classroom without pause. 

“We’re not going to Slughorn?” she asked uneasily.

Dorsey sneered openly at her, clearly thrilled to have the upper hand over her. “No, Travers, we’re not. He’s directed me to take you straight to the headmaster if I find you causing mayhem.”

Hortensia felt the blood leave her face. She’d been putting on her best performance in Potions with hopes that Slughorn would simply reprimand her if she caused trouble, maybe give her a few detentions. Of course, the best solution for her would be to stay out of trouble, but that was simply impossible for her. In addition to fighting for the rights of witches, she seemingly had an innate drive to wreak havoc. 

She didn’t dare show any anxiety in front of Dorsey. He, like many other non-Slytherin boys, hated her, and the feeling was mutual. As they climbed flight after flight to the seventh floor, Dorsey’s smarmy grin grew broader. After several hours, it felt like, they arrived at the stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office. 

The last time Hortensia had stood in front of this gargoyle, she’d been brought by Slughorn, who had to mutter a password. She was still trying to figure out who “Merope” was—it couldn’t have been a long-lost love, she decided, for the headmaster didn’t seem like the loving type. 

“I am James Dorsey, Head Boy, and I need to speak with the headmaster,” Dorsey told the gargoyle imperiously, and Hortensia could practically hear his chest puffing up with pride. She let out a scoff; no way that would work. 

To her complete surprise, however, the gargoyle moved cautiously to the side, revealing the spiral staircase. Dorsey waved her forward, but she shook her head.

“Ladies first,” she said with a pleasant smile, giving him a nudge. 

He looked ready to snap at her, but he must’ve decided it wasn’t worth it, for he just shook his head and stepped onto the staircase. “You’ll pay for that later,” he told her over his shoulder as they climbed. 

“Looking forward to it,” Hortensia replied with false cheer, when really she wished to run away and hide. She was mere weeks away from OWLs, after which it wouldn’t matter if she got expelled, but now? She could kiss her aspirations goodbye. If only she’d waited to throw the Legion party, but she figured the girls needed some stress relief from studying. It’s not as if they were causing mayhem; they were simply having a party…long after curfew. 

Though the punishment she’d received from the headmaster last time ruled all her recent sexual fantasies, she didn’t want it repeated, for it had been painful and humiliating. Either way, nothing good lie ahead for Hortensia. 

Dorsey knocked on the oak double-doors and they stood side-by-side, waiting. She hoped with all her heart that the headmaster had left Hogwarts, as she heard he’d been doing lately, but then his low voice called, “Enter,” and the doors opened. 

“Er, good evening, Professor,” Dorsey said awkwardly, staring at his feet. “I, erm, see, there was this sort of, congregation of upper-year witches caught out of bed tonight and most of them were taken to their Heads of House…”

He faltered, trying to catch his breath. Hortensia hadn’t an idea why he was so afraid, considering his swotty arse had never even been in detention. 

“However, Slug—Professor Slughorn had previously instructed me that if any infraction was caused by Hortensia Travers, she had to be taken to you,” Dorsey continued. “So…here she is.”

He gave her a push, and since she’d also been avoiding the headmaster’s gaze, it caught her off guard and she stumbled. She turned and gave him the most menacing glare she could muster, but then again, he had warned her he’d get her back. 

“Thank you, Mr. Dorsey,” Headmaster Riddle said from behind his grand desk. “You may leave.”

Dorsey didn’t have to be told twice; he shot out of there as if he’d seen a Dementor. Hortensia stood still, biting her lip, eyes on her shoes. She didn’t dare look at Riddle, though she could feel his eyes burning into her. 

“Have a seat, Miss Travers.”

As she pulled the chair out with trembling hands, she felt the contents of her stomach whirling around, threatening to escape. She sat primly in the seat, smoothing her robe down before folding her sweaty hands in her lap. 

“Look at me.”

She raised her head and met the narrowed, piercing dark eyes of the headmaster. “I don’t even want to know what you’ve done this time,” he said quietly. “I can tell by your smug little face that you haven’t learned your lesson. I would think that after only three months, it would still be fresh in your mind. No matter—I’m more than happy to repeat it. Stand up and place your wand on the desk.”

Hortensia rose and looked around helplessly. The Sorting Hat and all the portraits of past headmasters were already in deep slumber, for it was approaching midnight. “I’ll not ask you twice,” Riddle warned before turning to the small door near the desk. 

Quickly, she slid her wand out of her robes and placed it on a thick book titled _Treasures of the Hogwarts Four._ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a long scroll of parchment filled with notes in tiny, elegant handwriting. There was not enough time to discern them. 

“Come in here and close the door behind you.”

With equal parts excitement and trepidation, Hortensia stepped tentatively inside the headmaster’s bedroom. It looked identical to last time—lit candles on the mantel of the empty fireplace, neatly made bed, void of decoration—except the desk under the window was clear of notes and books. 

Headmaster Riddle was seated in the leather armchair by the fireplace, sipping on a glass of firewhiskey and ice. Calmly, he pointed his wand at the door and red light shot out. Expecting the piercing, grid-like beams spreading through the circular room, Hortensia kept her eyes closed until the light was gone. 

_“Diffindo.”_

The sound of ripping fabric filled the room, and to her dismay, the flowered purple dress robes she’d spent hours making herself fell to the floor around her feet, torn in half. Since the abandoned Defense classroom where the Legion party had been held could get quite hot, Hortensia hadn’t bothered to wear a blouse underneath. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Hands at your sides,” he snapped. “I can tell you’re going to be defiant like last time. Remove your skirt while you’re at it.”

With a sigh of dread, Hortensia reached behind her, unzipped the skirt, and let it fall around her ankles. Now she stood in front of him in only her bra and knickers, which were both silk and a matching shade of lavender, thigh-high hose, and black kitten heels. 

Riddle raised his eyebrows as he slowly dragged his eyes over her body. It was a struggle to keep her hands at her sides. She was several months shy of seventeen and had nowhere near the confidence of a woman. 

“You look like a whore,” he sneered, setting his glass down on the small table next to the chair. “Planning on spreading your legs for some idiot boy after your little party, were you?”

“N—no, sir,” she mumbled, tear-filled eyes on the pile of cloth at her feet. 

“Don’t lie to me, slag. Look at me.”

She couldn’t. She left her fists clenching, ready to start swinging. Tears of humiliation stung her eyes, about to spill over the brim. 

“ _Look at me, Hortensia,_ or I’ll hex you into oblivion.”

He’d told her that staff using magic against students was forbidden at Hogwarts, but evidently, he wasn’t playing by the Ministry’s rules anymore. She was completely at the mercy of one of the supposed greatest wizards in the world. Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to his. 

For a moment, she was transported out of the room and into a second-floor corridor with Marcus Rosier’s hand up her skirt and his lips on her neck. She hadn’t planned on letting Rosier anywhere near her, but she couldn’t help it. After the last punishment and a few glasses of champagne one night last month, her arousal was too much to bear. 

The scene faded and Hortensia’s relief from the current situation was gone. Belatedly, she realized that he’d been in her mind: _he was a Legilimens_. Riddle wrinkled his nose at her in contempt. “You filthy little bitch. Your mother’s heart will surely break once she finds out no one will take her daughter’s hand in marriage, since all the boys here have had her already. Come here.”

Tears trailed down Hortensia’s cheek as her lower lip trembled. His words weren’t true—she hadn’t let anyone have her; Riddle had just _taken_ her—but they sliced through her chest all the same. 

She heard ice clinking against glass as she took a step. No sooner than she’d lifted her left foot to take another, Riddle made a _tsk_ sound. “Ah-uh. On your hands and knees.”

Hastily wiping her cheeks, Hortensia lowered herself to the floor, palms pressed against her ruined robe. 

“Now come here.”

The only upside to crawling like a dog was that her long auburn hair fell over her face, obscuring it from his view. Once she was staring at his loafers, she felt a hand grab a fistful of her hair and yank her head up. “Get up, _up_ into position.”

Once she was draped across his lap, facedown against the leather, he dug his cold fingertips into the soft flesh of her rear, gripping it until she sucked in a breath of pain. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Y—yes, sir.”

He responded by slapping her rear, causing her to yelp. It hurt, but not nearly as much as the belt. If he only used his hand, she might be alright.

“Ah, how could I forget the belt?” he asked cheerfully. “Naughty girl needs a proper lesson. _Accio belt!”_

In that split-second, Hortensia decided that she didn’t care what happened as long as she got the hell away from him as soon as possible. She knew she was acting irrationally, but still she pushed herself off his lap and sprung to her feet. Before she could make another move, however, she was being lifted into the air by an invisible force and flipped over, leaving her hanging upside down. Blood immediately rushed to her head and neon spots danced in front of her eyes. 

“Oh, you silly, _silly_ little girl,” Riddle said in mock-exasperation, smiling and shaking his head. “When will you learn your place? Perhaps when I snap this belt in two over your arse?”

Alright, that was a rather stupid move, Hortensia had to admit, but in her defense, it was hard to form a coherent thought when she was utterly terrified. 

With a wave of his wand, the spell lifted and she crashed painfully to the floor. For a moment, she was content to curl in a ball and sob, but Riddle was commanding her to move.

“Get back over here where you belong. Just for good measure…” He pulled her arms back and pinned her wrists together. _“Incarcerous!”_ She felt rope tightening around her arms, jerking her shoulders back. He tore at her knickers, yanking them down…

SMACK! The pain was worse than anticipated. He didn’t give any pause between blows, bringing the belt down harder and harder on her red, swollen rear. “Stop it!” she cried. “Please!”

“Shut up,” he answered with a sharp slap against her cheek before resuming with the belt. 

She was sobbing; she could feel tears pouring out and howls escaping her throat, but all she could hear was this incessant ringing in her ears… She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the excruciating pain… His hand was gripping her hair again, pulling her head back until she was sure he would snap her neck… And then finally, blessedly, pure blackness took over. 

When she came to, Hortensia found herself kneeled over with her face buried in green cloth on what could only be his bed. Her hands were still tied, her bra was gone, and her knickers were, too, no longer around her knees. Riddle was rubbing her between her legs with one hand, clutching her hip with the other. Against her will, she was growing wet with want, rocking herself against his hand. 

“You like that, don’t you, you dirty little girl?” he asked between heavy breaths. “Pity I won’t be as nice as last time and bring you to climax. Oh no, you don’t deserve it.” He slapped the pink, soft skin, his fingertips grazing that sensitive little nub and sending jolts of pleasure down her legs. Despite wanting it all to end, she wanted more of his touch. 

He granted it, but not in the way she expected. She felt his cold fingers pull open her folds as his palms pressed against her bruised rear, pushing her further into the bed. Then nothing at all for a second before she heard a zipper and ruffling fabric. Slowly, he slid into her, filling her with rock-hard flesh. Though he’d taken her virginity last time, her inner walls stretched painfully as he thrust harder, causing her to wince and cry out. 

Just as the pain was starting to dull, Riddle seized Hortensia’s hair by the root and pulled her up off the bed until her tied hands were pressed against his abdomen. Without pause, he wrapped his other hand around her throat and she felt his hot, whiskey-scented breath in her ear. 

“Take it, bitch, that’s right. You like it, don’t you, filthy slut…”

Even if Hortensia could speak, she would not have been able to answer. While her lower half was bursting with pleasure, her lungs were fighting for air as his hand tightened around her throat. “Professor,” she squeaked, but it was too quiet; her voice-box was being crushed… Tiny bolts of lightning shot across her vision…

She regained consciousness as she was collapsing to the floor, cheek pressed against the dusty wood, gasping for breath. 

“Get up, you useless bitch,” Riddle commanded, towering over her. “Now!”

With all her might, Hortensia straightened up, the rope around her wrists irritating her throbbing rear, and found herself nose-to-tip with his cock glistening with her fluid. Her eyes went wide and her breath escaped her again. She’d never seen one before, especially not up close. 

“Open your mouth,” he growled. 

She shook her head. This had gone too far, she was not going to— He slapped her across the face so hard she nearly lost balance. “I said open your mouth, you worthless whore.”

She thought she’d unleashed all her tears, yet more sprang to her eyes as she parted her lips and took him in her mouth. He was fond of holding her hair, she realized, since he grabbed a fistful yet again as he drove himself deeper. She could taste her own tangy fluid, which didn’t gross her out nearly as much as she thought it would. Her jaw ached and her lips had gone numb, but this was much more bearable than being whipped or choked. 

That didn’t last, unfortunately. He yanked at her hair with both hands and rammed into her mouth, his tip hitting the back of her throat. She gagged and cried, trying to pull her head back, but he had too tight of a hold on her. Out of desperation, she raised her knee and flung out her leg as hard as she could, causing him to stumble and, thankfully, pull out. He smacked her again, striking her in the temple. 

“You disobedient, cock-sucking little _whore_ ,” he hissed. “I should just kill you right now. I’ll tell Mummy you ran off and bury you in the Forbidden Forest.” His wand prodded Hortensia’s cheek and she snapped, losing the last bit of control over herself she had. 

“No!” she shouted, kneeling over and pressing her forehead against the floor. “Please, no! I’ll stop the Legion, I promise! Beat me, expel me, just please don’t kill me, Professor, please!”

“Shut up and get back on your knees,” he said, but she couldn’t make herself move. After another minute, she fell to her side on the floor and brought her knees to her chest, heaving and sobbing uncontrollably. She didn’t want to die, Merlin, she didn’t want to die…

“Hortensia…”

She winced, expecting to feel his harsh hands or the tip of his wand again, but then she heard him adjust his trousers and walk away. Her breath caught in her throat as she wondered what he was about to do…

_“Diffindo.”_

Her wrists were released. With wobbly, tingling arms, she picked herself up off the floor, wiped the hair stuck to her face, and let out a deep, shuddering breath. Not daring to look up, she felt his hand grip her upper arm and tug her toward the bed. “Come,” Riddle said softly. “Come here…”

He sat on the bed and pulled her onto his lap. She was trembling violently, bracing herself for more abuse, but he gently brought her to his chest, stroking her hair away from her face. “I am not going to kill you, Hortensia.”

At those words, she started to cry again, sagging against his chest, burying her face into his neck and clutching his robes. She expected him to push her off, but he simply continued to hold her and run her fingers through her knotty hair. Her breathing slowed, her muscles loosened, and exhaustion took over. Her mind was one thick cloud of fog.

“Hortensia…” He was nudging her awake—she’d dozed off involuntarily. Her eyes creaked open and everything came back to her in one horrible, vomit-inducing moment. She was in Headmaster Riddle’s tower and he’d beaten her, and oh, Merlin, the _pain_ …it was everywhere. Her throat, scalp, rear, wrists, and the worst, her right cheekbone, which sent jolts of pain through her skull every time she blinked. 

Riddle had gathered her in his arms and was laying her down. The quilt was wonderfully soft but still the pain and shrill ringing wouldn’t subside. She realized she was whimpering, a knuckle clenched in between her teeth and a hand over her face. Instinctively, she curled into a ball and turned to face the other way. 

After a few deep breaths, the ringing finally lessened and Hortensia’s mind became a bit more lucid. She heard shuffling around somewhere, but she didn’t want to know for what. _This is the part where you die because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut,_ she thought miserably. 

“Hortensia.” Riddle sat back on the bed and took her shoulder, pushing her onto her back. “Come here, take this.”

Her face scrunched up, agitating her bruised cheekbone. Before she could think, her hand reached up and clutched the side of her face, palm pressed against her eyelid. 

“It hurts, yes?” 

He raised her wand and she jumped, letting out a squeak of terror. Copious amounts of golden, shimmering smoke snaked out of his wand, curling around her entire body. Instantly, a radiating heat shot through every cell, and the smoke cleared. 

“Is that better?”

“Yes, sir,” she said and was completely taken aback at how smooth and strong her voice came out. Her throat no longer hurt—nothing hurt. The welts and bruises were gone, her skin back to unblemished pale white. “Yes,” she repeated, letting her hand fall from her face. 

“You don’t want me to give it back, do you?”

“No, sir,” she said hastily, her muscles tensing up as she recalled the past hour. 

“You’re going to be a good girl and obey me, yes?”

“Yes!” she assured him, nodding fervently. “I promise, sir. I shall dismantle the Legion right away.”

Riddle gave a dry chuckle, dragging his fingertips over her lips and pinching the bottom one lightly. “Silly girl, do you honestly think I’m concerned about your group of brainless broads?”

Hortensia was too thrown off to be indignant. If not the Witches’ Legion, what on Earth had she been punished for?

“Your punishment was going near that fool Marcus Rosier,” he told her, answering her silent question. 

She shook her head and frowned, uncomprehending. This whole debacle was because of Marcus Rosier? 

“Not Rosier. _No one_ is to touch you, do you understand me? If I find out—and I _will_ find out—you’ve engaged in sexual activity with anyone, you will never leave this room. Is that clear, Hortensia?”

“Yes, sir,” she said mechanically, barely able to process what she’d just heard. It simply wasn’t making sense. 

He picked up a vial of turquoise liquid from the night table, held it up, and shook it slightly. The liquid inside swirled around, catching the light from the candles. “Good girl. Open your mouth.”

Hortensia recognized the potion as the Draught of Peace, the one she had trouble brewing earlier in the year. Hers always came out sky blue. At that point, she’d take a shot of firewhiskey to stop the constant residual trembling. She parted her lips and he dumped the entire vial into her mouth, even though Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing said two drops is enough for a whole twelve hours. Although it splashed into the back of her throat, the potion slid smoothly down, as warm as a fresh cup of tea. A small smile spread her lips as she licked them. For a moment, it didn’t matter what Riddle had punished her for and that she was still in his presence. Everything would be alright…

His fingers traveled slowly from her lips down her chest and stomach as she shivered with anticipation. All surroundings faded out except his intense gaze into her eyes. A blush was creeping to her cheeks and she felt as if she was sinking into a warm bath. 

Hortensia closed her eyes and let out a slow, easy sigh before she felt hot breath against her lips. Riddle was leaned over, kissing her, pushing between her lips with his tongue as his fingers rubbed the heated spot between her legs. The soft flesh began to dampen, and she brought her knees up slightly, opening her legs wider. 

He turned his head to whisper in her ear. “I’ve changed my mind about bringing you to climax. Would you like me to, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she breathed as he slid two fingers inside of her and sucked on the skin of her neck, sending waves of bliss down her spine. “Oh, yes…”

All she was aware of was the rocking and the pleasure blooming in between her legs, spreading through her nerves, running an electric current through all her limbs. She opened her eyes to take a peek at Riddle, but her view was obscured by his wavy black hair. Her fingernails grazed his scalp as she gripped his thick locks, waiting for him to push her away but he did not. He continued to drive his fingers into her and kiss her neck until she threw her head back and gave a soft cry. 

He pulled away and grabbed her hips, positioning her legs around his waist as he entered her slowly, achingly slowly. “You vow never to go near Rosier or anyone else, yes?”

“Yes, sir!” Hortensia gasped, wishing to hold him close again, but he remained upright, slowly moving in and out of her. 

“Because you’re mine now, is that clear? Open your eyes, Hortensia, look at me, and say it.”

She complied, meeting his eyes, falling into the darkness. “I’m yours…”

“That’s right, sweet girl.” He gave a rough thrust and she closed her eyes, crying out again. Leaning over, he clutched her hip with one hand and the side of her face with the other, growling into her neck. With each thrust her cries grew heavier and louder as yellow stars floated across her eyes…

“Oh, Professor!” she moaned as she sank her fingernails into his shoulders. He was hitting the other special spot deep inside, releasing her. After another moment, she felt hot liquid fill her as he collapsed on top of her, running his fingers along her jaw. She was lost in a sea of warm skin, dark waves, and hot, heavy breath. 

Hortensia, wading in the afterglow, barely noticed Riddle withdrawing and standing up. She was too busy floating on a cloud under warm sunshine… But no, she was at Hogwarts, she had to go… She threw a hand out, but it simply hung over the edge of the bed as her eyes closed…

A wonderfully soft blanket was enveloping her into a warm cocoon and gentle fingers were brushing her hair back from her face. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. “My girl.”

Somewhere deep down, a voice was telling her it was a bad idea, but it was muffled, as if logic was above the water and she below. The headmaster was both her predator and protector, and he was liable to switch between the two. No matter; she would worry about it later. Later, later…

As everything faded comfortably to black, Hortensia let herself sink into the cloud and drift away.

*********


	3. Reward

III: Reward 

_31 December 1962_

Hortensia was going mad. Something had taken over and turned her crazy. She could barely concentrate or keep still outside of lessons. At meals, she tapped her nails on the table and glasses. Euphemia Rowle always told her to knock it off, but she couldn’t. 

In May after her second punishment, she’d held a Legion meeting and told the girls to pause everything for OWLs. They came and went, and then summer arrived: back to her mum and feigning excitement about looking for a future husband. Thankfully, September came quickly and the intention was to start the Legion back up, but NEWT classes were so much more difficult than anticipated. The sixth-years had mistakenly thought that after OWLs, workload would ease off a bit. They couldn’t have been more wrong. 

And through it all, Hortensia thought of only one person. Not Marcus Rosier, who her mother would be thrilled to hear was pursuing her, but the very last person she should ever go near— _him_. Headmaster Riddle. 

At least twice a day, she went through the litany of why she should avoid him. _He beat you, he humiliated you, he hurt you and was happy to do it._ To exacerbate it all, the headmaster had been coming to the Great Hall every Friday to sit at the head of the professor’s table, which was usually occupied by Slughorn. He didn’t eat but simply sat and watched to “acquaint himself better with his students,” according to Slughorn. The general consensus among the upper-year Slytherin girls was that Headmaster Riddle was handsome but more so odd and creepy. 

Hortensia alone knew what he was capable of. _He called you a bitch and a whore, he threatened your life…_ Yet she made sure to be in the Great Hall every Friday in her newest robes with her hair perfectly styled and fluttering eyelashes coated with mascara. Never would she look directly at him, but it was a constant struggle to keep her eyes away. 

It had been easy enough to ignore with classwork and friends. Earlier in the month, with exams, she’d barely noticed him at all. Then term ended and 95% of the castle went home for the holidays, while Hortensia stayed at Hogwarts. 

Since it was New Year’s Eve, the Slytherins who stayed behind were celebrating with a gathering in the common room. Luther Selwyn, a seventh-year, provided a bottle of mead. Hortensia knew he was offering her some with the hope of getting her alone later, so she drank a couple of glasses and slipped away to the corridor. Here the alcohol started to catch up with her and blur her thinking. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself on the seventh floor. 

_This is a bad idea, bad idea, bad idea…_ Yet she continued forward to the headmaster’s tower. Vaguely hoping he hadn’t changed the password since the beginning of the year, she leaned in close to the stone gargoyle and whispered, “Merope.” 

To her surprise, the gargoyle stepped aside to let her enter the revolving marble staircase. As it brought her to the platform, she heard her heartbeat thumping in her ears. Shutting her eyes in a vain effort to clear her mind, she raised her fist and knocked on one of the doors. 

“Enter.”

Her heart froze; she’d been expecting—and half-hoping—he wouldn’t be there. She pressed her palm against the door, ready to open it, but her arm wouldn’t budge. 

“Enter,” he repeated, louder. 

Hortensia mashed her lips together and opened the door. As usual, Headmaster Riddle was seated at his desk, writing notes. He looked up, briefly held her eyes, and resumed writing. “Good evening, Miss Travers. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She had no answer—she didn’t think she would get this far. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she finally admitted. 

Still not looking up, he pointed his quill at the velvet-covered chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

After sitting down, Hortensia slid her hands under her legs and glanced around the room. All of the portraits were again deep in slumber, evidently not bothering to wait for the arrival of 1963. On a small wooden table she’d somehow missed the last two times she was there sat a large stone bowl containing a substance that gave off a shimmering silver glow. She wanted desperately to know what it was—a potion, maybe?—but she knew she couldn’t ask. It was mesmerizing; she had a hard time keeping her eyes off it. 

“It’s a Pensieve,” the headmaster said suddenly, causing her to startle. She hadn’t noticed he’d finished writing. “It holds memories.”

Hortensia nodded, looking at her knees. For an odd moment, she disregarded Riddle’s presence entirely and began to wonder about an array of matters: what went on in his head, how did memories get extracted and what they looked like, still, who was Merope, what on Earth was she doing here, and so on. Her mind was fuzzy enough to block out anxiety but clear enough to think coherently. 

“Well then, Miss Travers,” said Riddle, snapping her back to attention. “Have you kept your vow or not? Look at me when you answer me.”

She raised her eyes to his, and just as she said, “I’ve kept it, sir,” she was transported to the corridor just outside, standing behind Slughorn as he whispered to the gargoyle. Hortensia, now that she knew Riddle was employing Legilimency, was able to recognize the memory right away. It was unrelated to the vow she’d made last time, but she assumed he wanted to know from where she took the password. 

The next was in Hogsmeade, smiling at an older wizard who’d taken a fancy to her, but when he’d asked to write her, she declined. She’d also, as instructed, turned down Marcus Rosier, who’d asked her to go steady. After reliving that tense conversation, the headmaster brought her back to the office and withdrew from her mind. She immediately blinked hard and looked down. 

“Well, that’s a surprise, to be honest,” he remarked. “No more Legion meetings and wreaking havoc? Behaving like a proper lady and not like a slag? Perhaps you are learning.”

Hortensia didn’t know what she was supposed to be learning, but she was not about to argue. He stood and turned toward the small door near his desk. “Come.”

Heart pounding and lip trembling, she followed him into the bedroom. He wouldn’t punish her now, would he? Or perhaps she was too much of a nuisance and he needed to eliminate her—

After he’d cast the grid-like spell locking them inside, Riddle pointed his wand at the leather armchair. That and the tiny stand next to it transformed into a sitting table with two chairs, complete with two goblets on top. Then he filled the fireplace with bright orange flames, warming the chilly room immediately. 

Hortensia was entranced with the fire, zoning out for a minute or two, until he placed a hand on her lower back and nudged her toward the table. “Come, have a seat.” 

As she sat across from him, she took a peek in the goblet in front of her, which was filled with pale, fizzy liquid. “It’s champagne,” he told her. “Drink some and relax.”

She did as she was told, grasping the goblet and bringing it to her lips. He did the same, keeping his eyes on her. It was surreal, to put it mildly, to sip champagne with the headmaster after he’d nearly choked her to death not long ago. However, the smooth, bubbly liquid sliding down her throat so easily, warming her, helped her disregard that. After three sips, or so it seemed, the goblet was empty, but no sooner than she’d set it down on the table, it had refilled itself. 

Riddle was looking off into the distance as if she wasn’t there. She wondered if it was champagne in his goblet or something else, maybe firewhiskey since he’d been drinking that the last time. “Drink up,” he urged, nodding to the goblet but still not looking at her. 

After the next few sips, Hortensia’s head, which had cleared with the passing of time, grew fuzzy again. She could feel her eyelids drooping and her shoulders slumping. The fire was so very warm, the room dimly-lit, silent, and cozy. Though she found it odd that Riddle wasn’t speaking to her, she wasn’t too fussed; it was nice to simply sit. 

Eventually, he turned to her and asked her how she was feeling. “Good,” she assured him.

“Yes? Perhaps since you’ve kept your vow, you’re due for a reward.”

Hortensia had no idea what he meant by that, but it sure sounded better than punishment. Slowly, she nodded. 

“Come.”

When she stood up, the room tilted a bit and a deep flush took over her face. Assuming that she was simply too hot, she took off her robe and draped it over the chair. Surprisingly, Riddle did the same, except he waved his wand to hang it up on the door. Although she was grateful that he hadn’t asked for her wand, which was tucked in her robes, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to reverse the spell he’d cast on the room. That’s if she managed to disarm him somehow, which she was sure she couldn’t do. Didn’t matter, she supposed. 

He was dressed in all black, in trousers and a tight-fitting, button-up shirt. She felt rather juvenile in her flowered skirt and plain, pink blouse, but he simply placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her to the bed. 

“Lie down,” Riddle urged softly, running his hand up her spine. A tingle of desire spread through her limbs as she slipped out of her shoes and climbed onto the bed. 

As soon as her head hit the pillow, he leaned over her and pressed his mouth against hers, holding each side of her face. They kissed slowly, almost sensually, pulling on each other’s bottom lips. He pressed his thumbs under her jaw, tilting her head back, and gently sucked on the sensitive skin on her neck. It felt so wonderful, she couldn’t contain the small cry rising from her throat. 

“You like that, sweetheart, don’t you?” he whispered, squeezing her breast through her skirt as he pressed into her.

“Yes, sir,” she breathed, feeling her legs fall open, her hips tilting upwards to meet his. 

He sat up abruptly and pulled open her blouse, exposing the same silk lavender bra she’d been in last time. Although he’d told her she looked like a whore, she’d worn them again simply because that bra and the matching knickers were the nicest she owned. This time he did not remark on it but peeled it down, away, until her breasts were bare. Immediately after that, he lifted her skirt, took off her knickers, and spread her legs wider. “Stay like this.”

Hortensia obeyed his command for several minutes while Riddle looked her up and down with a cold, analytical expression. Then she couldn’t handle it; she instinctively curled up, about to close her legs, but he held her knee. 

“I said stay like this, Hortensia.”

His tone had a slight edge to it now, and she felt her body starting to tense. She felt too dirty, too exposed in this position, splayed out for him. 

“There is no need to be ashamed, darling,” he told her, stroking her cheek. “You are a woman now. I’ve made you into one, and now I’ll teach you to behave like one.”

Though his tone had switched back to kind, she felt a nervous flutter from somewhere inside her chest as she heard his words. Her fuzzy brain processed them, but it was too slow to connect the words to her sudden odd feeling. Then she forgot about it instantly as Riddle leaned back over her and resumed sucking on her neck, moving further down as his hand ran up her leg. When his mouth met the top of her breast, he pulled the skin sharply through his teeth, nipping it slightly. He repeated it twice more as his fingers reached their destination, rubbing against slick pink flesh. 

“Oh, yes,” Hortensia sighed as her head tilted further back and her face started to scrunch up. “Oh, yes, Professor!”

He unlatched himself from her skin and pulled slightly away. The mark on her breast was a vicious mix of black and purple. At first, Hortensia tensed up, thinking she’d angered him, but he leaned back in to whisper in her ear. “I am not your professor. I am your master. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, Master,” she said hurriedly, wishing for the fingertips nestled in her folds to move again. They did, albeit too slowly for her liking. 

“Don’t forget that you are mine,” Riddle continued. “I own you now, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Master,” Hortensia repeated, bucking her hips, impatient for heavier petting. Instead she got the opposite: he withdrew his hand and sat up again. 

“Say it, Hortensia,” he commanded. In the firelight, she noticed an odd gleam in his eyes, like he was restraining himself from some type of action. She briefly recalled the last time he’d looked at her like that. He’d hurt her so badly, held her against her will. As concerning as that was, Hortensia couldn’t seem to muster up much concern. Her desire for him at that moment blurred everything else out. 

“I am yours, Master,” she said. “I belong to you.”

This was the incantation to his spell. He cupped her cheek and kissed her hard as his fingers slid all the way inside of her. As she gasped and rocked against his hand, he bit into her soft, pale skin, leaving more inky blotches across her chest. 

“Oh, yes! Prof—Master, _yes_!” Hortensia cried as her walls clenched around his fingers. She realized she had grabbed his thick, dark hair and clutched his face to her neck as she felt a gush of release. He pulled away from her, grabbed her chin, and thrust his fluid-covered fingers into her mouth. As he slowly withdrew them, she sucked them clean, meeting his gaze under heavy eyelids. 

“That’s my girl,” Riddle said calmly, but the gleam had returned to his eyes. Somehow in the orange light, they seemed more red than dark. “You see how well I will treat you when you obey me?”

“Yes, sir,” Hortensia replied, barely hearing him. A pleasant static was filling her ears, lulling her to sleep. However, the headmaster wasn’t finished with her yet. 

“Rise.” He gripped the sleeve of her dress and tugged her from the bed. She held on to her knickers around her knees, but once she stood upright, he tore them off easily. 

Without speaking or breaking eye contact, Riddle placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her backward until her rear landed on the surface of his desk. He pushed her legs up until she was splayed out again, her feet resting on the edge of the desk. Before she could even wonder what would happen next, he shoved her skirt over her knees and took a few steps back, looking at her. Hortensia could see the flash of hunger in his eyes as he bit his lip slightly. It made her a bit uncomfortable, but she knew she had to stay put. 

“You are quite beautiful, Hortensia,” he said casually, as if he was simply voicing an observation, but his words had a profound impact on her: a strong, heated burst rose up in her chest and a small, joyous smile crossed her face. 

Blushing, she tore her eyes away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. “Thank you, sir.”

As he came closer, he undid his trousers and yanked her blouse off. She inhaled sharply when he entered her, but thankfully he took it slow at first, building her excitement. As he thrust harder, he grabbed her hips, digging his fingers into her flesh. With her palms pressed against the desk, she threw her head back, breathing heavy with pleasure. Then after a moment, she felt his hand on her throat and her eyes snapped open, muscles freezing. 

The headmaster sensed her fear. He slowed his motions and released her. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

She didn’t believe him in the slightest and he knew it. Rather than comment on it, he gripped her hair and pulled her close as he upped the pace. Her cheek was pressed against his heaving chest, her scalp stinging, and oddly, she did feel rather safe like this. It was as if she was with a different Riddle, one who really wouldn’t hurt her. 

Although the hard surface of the desk was causing some discomfort, Hortensia was again ascending to the heavens as he held her tight and pumped into her. As soon as she let out a howl of release, his hot fluid filled her up before he let her go, pulled away, and turned around. 

Lifting his wand, Riddle kept his back to her, changing the table and seats back into his leather armchair while she dressed and cleaned herself up. Once he sat down, he beckoned her over. With wobbly legs, she walked across the room and sat on his lap. 

“Did you enjoy yourself, pretty girl?” he asked quietly, running his hand idly up her arm. 

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, resting her cheek against his chest; she liked it there. Externally, unlike her, he was calm and collected, but the thumping of his heart told the real story. Soon it slowed, and she felt the energy drain from her own system. The warmth from the fire caressed her legs while his arms held her firmly in place. Her eyes closed and thoughts escaped her…

When Hortensia woke up, alone in the bed, she felt considerably well-rested but also a bit anxious. A look at her watch told her it was 9:24 in the morning. She supposed Riddle was in his office and that she was still locked in here. 

Quietly, she pulled off the blanket and looked down. For a moment, she was startled to see, peeking through her half-buttoned blouse, angry black marks across her chest. Then, with a throb of arousal between her legs, she remembered Riddle’s mouth on her, pulling her skin between his teeth. She realized she wasn’t wearing knickers and searched the floor for them, but she couldn’t find them. Eventually she gave up and crept to the door. 

Pressing her ear against the wood, she heard a slight buzzing from the invisible beams guarding her in, but beyond that, she was surprised to hear Riddle’s voice clearly, speaking to someone unknown. 

“…impossible for Dumbledore to escape Nurmengard. He’s not nearly as powerful as everyone thinks he is.” 

“But, my Lord, they believe he’s emitting these strong magical currents,” a squeaky male voice protested. “That they stretch across huge crosses of land! If they manage to narrow down a central location—” 

“They’ll still be at square one,” Riddle cut him off coolly. “Nurmengard is impossible for the common wizard to find. Only those with extraordinary magical prowess can break Grindelwald’s protections, and they have no desire to free that old fool. I assure you, Laurence, Leach and his band of idiots will never succeed.”

A beat of silence passed before Riddle spoke again. “Forgive me, but I must get back to my term report for the Ministry. Abraxas will have a full workload this month getting these new regulations approved.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the man presumably called Laurence replied as the scraping of chairs against the wooden floor filled the room. “Good day and happy new year.”

“You as well, Laurence.”

Mind reeling, Hortensia straightened up and prepared to take silent steps back toward the bed. She only made it halfway before she heard the door swing open. Hastily, she plopped her rear onto the leather armchair and tried to appear as if she’d been sitting a while. 

Riddle was not fooled. He raised his eyebrows and made a _tsk_ sound, shaking his head. “Naughty little girl, listening to my conversations and sitting in my chair. Rise.”

With her heart fluttering in trepidation, Hortensia stood, tensing, as he approached her. Catching herself before flinching, she watched his hand extend to her face, pushing her hair back from her eyes. He took her face in both of his hands and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “Wait for my summons,” he told her firmly, apparently unconcerned about what she’d heard. “Do not come here unannounced. I will bring you here soon, alright?”

“Yes, Master,” she said docilely, peering up at him and asking him with her eyes to kiss her again. 

He did not; instead, he withdrew his wand from his robes and tapped it against the top of her head. A cold trickle ran down the back of her skull and her spine, giving her a chill. 

“Remember, Hortensia.” He was still looking into her eyes even though she was now Disillusioned, so he—presumably—couldn’t see her. “You are mine.” 

Another unexplained bout of unease rolled around in her stomach. “Yes, Master.” What was it about that phrase that made her so anxious? She _wanted_ him, wanted to be his, despite her speeches to the Legion, telling the witches to never succumb to a man’s every whim, never believe his every word. 

Riddle held her gaze for another moment before turning away. After lifting the wards on the room, he opened the door and waved her out. “Until next time,” he muttered softly as she passed. 

The portraits were awake and the Pensieve was still full, but Hortensia couldn’t waste time lingering in the office. Carefully, she pushed open one of the oak doors until there was a gap wide enough to slip through. She looked back only once to see the headmaster take a seat at his desk. 

As she made her way through nearly the entire castle, which was empty since everyone was either home with family or recovering from New Year’s Eve festivities, she allowed herself to reflect on the past 24 hours. The first three-quarters, the physical part, would have to wait until she was in her dormitory where she could act upon the urge to touch herself, which was already beginning to occur. To take her mind off it, she focused on the last bit: the intriguing conversation between Riddle and this Laurence. 

Albus Dumbledore was the former Transfiguration professor and supposedly one of the most magically talented wizards of all time. Some of the current professors, such as Kettleburn, Sinistra, and occasionally Slughorn, spoke of him with reverence. He’d been defeated in a duel with Gellert Grindelwald in 1945 and locked away in Nurmengard, a prison created by Grindelwald himself. A year later, Grindelwald disappeared—many speculated that he was lying in wait. Since Hortensia was born that same year, 1946, she was fuzzy on the details of his disappearance. 

The issue with Dumbledore had been that, despite his brilliance, he was an extreme muggle-lover with the power to prompt the Ministry to bend the rules to suit those with inferior blood. Even muggleborns had been allowed a Hogwarts education up until recently. No wonder so many wanted him gone, Hortensia thought. 

Something else was odd about the conversation—Laurence had called Riddle “my Lord.” What on Earth was that about? Lord of what? The castle, surely, but somewhere else? Was he going to rule over more than Hogwarts one day? All of Magical Britain, perhaps? 

The idea of the wizarding world under Riddle’s control, like tales of Grindelwald’s rule, was both thrilling and deeply terrifying. He would be able to explore his malicious side unchecked…

 _You’re overreaching_ , Hortensia scolded herself. There was nothing to indicate that Riddle intended to take over the wizarding world or even Magical Britain. He’d have to get through the whole Ministry of Magic first. 

Yet she could not deny that, even from her limited observations, Riddle was in love with power. The fact that he was headmaster at only thirty-something was enough proof of that. He was, evidently, the type to seek as much power as he could. 

And Hortensia, despite one half of her screaming at the other not to, had to admit that she loved his power over her.

*********


	4. Discipline

IV: Discipline 

_21 April 1963_

The plan had been to wait for his summons, to be a good girl and stay out of trouble, to impress him. But for Hortensia, nothing ever seemed to go to plan. 

Months passed, and with lessons, Apparition, friendship drama, and the impending threat of a feud between Hogwarts and the Ministry, she thought of the headmaster less and less. As desperate as she was to see him again, she didn’t take his absence personally. He must’ve been equally busy pulling the school out from under the Ministry’s control. 

He sat at the professor’s table in the Great Hall only on the occasional Friday, and Hortensia gave up trying to look her best since she could never predict when he’d be there. He’d seen her naked, sniveling, unconscious, trembling with fear—she figured it didn’t much matter if she had a meal under his watch without lipstick on. 

Finally, one evening in late April, she attempted to resurrect the now-defunct Witches’ Legion. She only had to tell Euphemia Rowle, the biggest blabber-mouth in all of Hogwarts, to gather the usual group of girls in the Come and Go Room that Friday night. 

After painstakingly fixing her makeup and brushing her hair, Hortensia crept quietly—it was already hours past curfew—to the seventh floor, thinking of what to tell the girls. She had no plan for any activity, no grand speech rehearsed; she was simply bored of keeping her nose clean. Workload had hit a temporary lull due to Apparition lessons. Perhaps one of the girls had an idea, but that was doubtful, as they tended to passively rally around her—

“Oi! Who’s there?” a voice called suddenly, just as she began to creep up a stairwell to the fourth floor. 

She started horribly and immediately tried to flatten herself against the wall in shadow, but then a portrait called unhelpfully, “She’s right here, matey!”

Footsteps advanced in her direction and the Head Boy, a tall, wiry blonde by the name of Arkady Basore, appeared in the dim candlelight. “Well, well, well, who have we got here? Ah, what a surprise. Hortensia Travers.”

Basore wasn’t nearly as smarmy as the last one in his position, James Dorsey, but since he was Head Boy, he was nonetheless an arrogant prat by default. “Good evening, Arkady,” Hortensia greeted dully. 

“I suppose I haven’t got to ask what you’re doing out of bed,” Basore continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Who is he?” Just as he reached the stairwell, it started to move lazily, taking them to an unfamiliar landing.

“Pardon?” she asked, gripping the banister, unsure if she’d heard correctly. 

“The bloke you’re seeing,” he snapped as if it was obvious. “Clearly from a different House if you’re all the way up here.”

“I—er, no, there’s no bloke.” She hadn’t an idea what to say. Unfortunately, in her haste to meet the Legion, she completely forgot to think of an excuse if she was caught out of bed. She couldn’t even remember the one she gave Dorsey the last time she’d been in this position. 

“Bollocks. A girl like you, wandering the castle alone, without a purpose? Dorsey told me all about you, how much ruckus he’s caught you causing.”

“Dorsey is a poxy liar,” Hortensia snarled, fists clenching. 

“Is that so?” Basore raised his caterpillar-like eyebrows. “He told me to take you straight to the headmaster, who’s ready to toss you right out. Was he lying about that, too?” 

She opened her mouth to retort but then thought better of it. _Did_ the headmaster intend to expel her if she got into trouble again?

Seeing the stricken look on her face, Basore snatched her arm, pulled her up the stairs, and dragged her down a dark, narrow corridor. Hortensia, unable to see farther than two feet in front of her face, tripped on her own foot and stumbled. Firm hands gripped her shoulders, preventing her from falling. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” Basore’s voice said softly in her ear. She was suddenly aware of how close he was, his chest pressed against her back. “Give me a kiss and I’ll let you go about your merry way.”

“Sod off,” she snapped automatically, but his last declaration about her expulsion was plaguing her. The headmaster said to wait for her summons, but he wouldn’t be pleased about her getting into trouble. But he also would find out if she gave into Basore, who was jerking her forward…

“Alright, love, if that’s how you want to be, then let’s go…”

“Wait,” she said, trying to pull out of his pincer-like grip. Her mind was still in uproar, but her mouth seemed to have made the right—or wrong—decision. “How do I know you’re not trying to pull one over on me?”

Basore placed a hand on his chest in mock-outrage. “Why, Hortensia, I am _Head Boy_. I’m Hogwarts’ most upstanding student. I would never deceive anyone.” 

Now it was Hortensia’s turn to say _bollocks_ but she kept it confined to her head. Basore would’ve done well in Slytherin, but from what she’d heard and seen over the years, his wit was his true asset. 

“Fine,” she told him. “But you mustn’t tell anyone. I’m trying to go steady with Rosier, see.” 

“Yes, I know,” the Head Boy replied in an oddly frosty tone. “Less talking and more doing, shall we?” Before she could answer, he turned her around to face him, stepped closer, and planted his lips on hers. 

It wasn’t dreadful. His lips were soft and his scent was pleasant, like fresh lake water. But then she thought of the true object of her affection and wished to pull away, but he’d wrapped his arms around her and—

“Ooh, kissy, kissy!” a high-pitched voice cackled overhead. They sprang apart as if they’d scalded each other. “Head Boy and Miss Troublemaker are in loooove!”

Peeves, the school’s mischievous and irritating poltergeist, was hovering above the pair, smacking his lips obnoxiously. “Mwah, mwah, mwah! Don’t slobber all over the girlie, Mr. Head Boy!”

A door slammed open somewhere in the main corridor. “Goddamn it,” Basore hissed in aggravation as irate footsteps clomped toward them.

“Just what in the blue hell is going on here?” demanded Septima Vector, the Arithmancy professor. Her nightcap and slippers were made of what looked like dyed acid-green troll hair, clashing horribly with her bright purple nightgown. Forgetting her dire circumstances for the moment, Hortensia fought the urge to laugh. 

“Get lost, Peeves,” Vector ordered, hands on her hips.

“With pleasure, madam!” Peeves screeched, flying and twisting down the main corridor like a torpedo, his whoops echoing through the whole floor. 

“Professor, I caught Miss Travers here out of bed,” Basore said quickly. “The stairwell took us here, and I believe this route—”

“Why were you taking her up the stairs?” Vector cut him off, narrowing her eyes at him. “As you are aware, Basore, her Head of House is Professor Slughorn, whose classroom is in the left-wing dungeons.” 

If Basore was flustered, he didn’t show it. “Yes, but you see, James Dorsey had told me prior that Miss Travers is an exception and must go straight to the headmaster.”

Hortensia didn’t bother to hide the sharp glare she sent his way. How dare he, after she’d kept her end of the deal! 

“Very well then,” Vector replied, waving her hand to dismiss them. “Take her there and get back to Ravenclaw Tower.” 

“Yes, Professor.”

“You lying, traitorous bastard,” Hortensia hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. 

Basore strode on, unbothered. “It was only about ten seconds long. Not enough to qualify.” 

As she seethed silently, he led her to the headmaster’s tower, proclaimed himself Head Boy to the stone gargoyle, and shoved her onto the moving spiral staircase. 

“I hate you,” she whispered as he rapped on the oak door once they’d reached the landing to the office. 

“Pity,” Basore replied smugly in the same moment the headmaster’s voice called, “Enter.”

Side by side, the pair entered the circular office. Headmaster Riddle glanced at them for a second before looking down at what appeared to be a letter on the desk in front of him. “What’s happened, Mr. Basore? I am assuming Miss Travers has broken yet another school rule.”

“Correct, sir,” Basore replied pompously. “She refuses to tell me what she was doing out of bed. I would’ve taken her to Professor Slughorn, but James Dorsey had informed me that she’s to be taken to you.”

Hortensia looked around the office at all the sleeping portraits and saw that the entire Pensieve set-up, table and all, was gone. 

“That is correct,” said the headmaster. “I’m glad someone in this castle follows instructions. You are dismissed, Mr. Basore.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

As Basore closed the heavy wooden door behind him, Hortensia, assuming Riddle would tell her to sit, reached for the back of the velvet-covered chair to pull it out. 

“Don’t bother,” Riddle said briskly, rolling up the scroll and sliding it into a drawer. “You know the procedure by now, yes?” He raised his eyebrows at her. 

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes to her feet. _Clear your mind, clear your mind_ … She’d found out from a library book in the Restricted Section that the counter-spell to Legilimency was Occlumency, except Occlumency was not a spell but “the art of clearing one’s mind.” Hortensia’s mind, which tended to run off, propelled by racing thoughts, was not liable to stay blank. Thus, she simply tried to divert it to something else, which wasn’t easy. 

“Place your wand on the desk.”

Her hand shook as she did what she was told. A sharp pang passed through her as she let go of her beloved wand. 

Once they were locked in the bedroom, Riddle ordered her to stand in the center while he took a seat in his large leather armchair. For a tense moment, neither spoke as he conjured a glass of firewhiskey. Instead of taking a sip as expected, he tilted his head back and swallowed all of the dark liquid at once. She had to admire how his handsome face didn’t contort, not even a furrowed brow. 

“Why were you out of bed?” he asked quietly. 

Hortensia attempted a gulp, but her saliva felt and tasted like glue. As a result, her voice came out slightly garbled. “I, er, I had arranged a get-together, sir.”

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to his. The memory of telling Euphemia Rowle in hushed tones during the first few minutes of a Charms lesson flashed by. Thankfully, once he heard the word “Legion,” Riddle pulled out of her mind and gave her a narrowed-eyed glare. “You just can’t keep yourself out of trouble, can you, ridiculous girl? Remove your clothes. Now.”

Cheeks burning in shame, Hortensia pulled off her robe and dress. She hadn’t bothered to wear any fancy undergarments, not planning on being seen like this, so she stood in front of him in plain white socks, knickers, and bra. It took much effort to keep her arms rigid at her sides. Worse yet, the room was freezing—no fire—and goosebumps dotted her skin. 

As usual, the headmaster took his time assessing her. She felt his eyes roving over her as ice clinked against glass—the firewhiskey had refilled itself. 

“I said remove your clothes, Hortensia,” he said pleasantly, and, despite keeping her eyes trained on the floor, she could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “ _All_ of them.” 

Her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears as she unclasped her bra and let it fall to the floor. Just the idea of standing there naked under his analytical gaze was mortifying. She could not get her hands to pull down her knickers. 

“Let’s go, dear, I haven’t got all night,” Riddle prompted, clearly enjoying her discomfort. 

With a heavy sigh, Hortensia took off her knickers and stood still, wishing to disappear. A lone tear rolled down her cheek and, because the front of her hair was pinned back, she couldn’t hide it. 

“Come here.”

She was about to step forward when he added, “On your hands and knees.”

If there was anything more humiliating than crawling naked in front of a man twice her age, Hortensia couldn’t imagine it. By the time she arrived at his knees, more tears had leaked out and she was sniffling, holding back a whimper. 

“Enough sniveling. Dry your eyes and get over here.” He patted his lap. She hastily swiped at her cheeks and leaned over his knees. Every muscle was clenched in anticipation of the horrible stinging of the belt. 

However, he did not summon the belt but merely grabbed her arse and squeezed, digging his fingers into her pale flesh. She let out a low hiss, but she knew she could bear this. Then he released her and, without warning, shoved her off his lap. She let out a yelp as her head, shoulder, and hip collided harshly with the wooden floor. 

Riddle watched her, indifferent, as she sat up, wincing in pain. “Come back here.”

Hortensia gripped his leg, about to hoist herself back over his knees, but he took her hand and pressed it over the stiff bulge in his trousers. Keeping his over hers, he had her rub against his erection. “Take it out.”

She realized her hands were shaking as she fumbled with his belt, a burning flush rising to her cheeks again. Even though she was seventeen, an adult, she felt terribly wrong touching him this way, that she was too immature for it. Slowly, she loosened the belt, unbuttoned the pants, and slid them down until his cock sprang out, glaring her in the face. She was momentarily paralyzed, her lips slightly parted. 

He placed a hand on the back of her head and pushed down, so that the tip rested on her chin. “Take it in your mouth.”

Last year, he had nearly choked her to death with it, a fact that probably should have filled her with fear but, strangely, it did not. As her head bobbed up and down, mouth filled with hot, hard flesh, she found that she didn’t mind performing such an act, especially when she could tell that he was enjoying it. His breaths were ragged and heavy, his fist clenched in her hair, loosening it from the pins. 

He pushed her head down more, getting dangerously close to the back of her throat, but still she didn’t mind. He was trying to contain his soft groans, which filled her with pride. Right now, she had the power to make him feel good. 

“That’s it... Naughty Hortensia...” His voice was hoarse but steady. With both hands, he clutched the sides of her face and thrust into her mouth, bringing tears back to her eyes. As soon as she was about to gag, he pushed her away. A trail of saliva stretched like a tightrope between him and her lower lip. 

“You like to please me, yes?” The odd red tint in his eyes was back, but it only lasted half a second, just long enough for Hortensia to wonder if she was imagining it. 

“Yes, Master,” she breathed before wiping her mouth and taking a swallow. Her throat was numb, unresponsive to her effort. 

“Come.” He took her arms and hauled her onto his lap. Her knees hugged his waist as he guided himself into her. Grabbing her bare breasts, he rocked her back and forth. 

Since Hortensia had never been in this position before, it was rather painful. Her face scrunched up and she let out a whimper, clutching his shoulders. 

“It hurts?” Riddle whispered in her ear. 

“Yes, sir,” she admitted. 

Still inside her, he lifted her up and walked across the room with her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck. Once her back was against the wall, he slowly thrust into her, hands firmly gripping her rear.

It felt immensely better, so much so that pleasure immediately spread through her lower half, bringing forth tiny cries from the back of her throat. As he moved faster, he kissed her roughly, biting her bottom lip. Yes, he was who she ought to be kissing, not that— _No! Don’t think of Basore!_ Too late: she opened her eyes, caught Riddle’s, which had apparently been open the entire time, and the whole encounter on the fourth floor played out. 

For a moment, Riddle just stared at her, still and blank-faced, until he turned and threw her to the floor. “Ouch!” Hortensia cried as jolts of excruciating pain ran up her spine and through her arms, having landed on her tailbone and elbows. 

“You disgusting little whore.” A fist tangled itself in her hair, yanking at her scalp, as he pulled her upright. 

“Master—” she started, but she was silenced instantly by a hard smack to the face. At once, she began to cry. 

“Shut up, you filthy, insolent bitch. Did I tell you to speak? You will never learn to behave properly, will you?” Another sharp smack came with such force, she would’ve surely toppled over if he hadn’t had such a tight hold on her hair. 

“Master, please!” she bawled, cowering and covering her swollen cheek. “It meant nothing! It was a mistake—”

“You are a mistake,” he cut her off coolly, and she looked up at him, tears dripping off her jaw. He was glaring at her in contempt. “You’re nothing but a worthless, disloyal whore, Hortensia. No man will ever want you, no employer would ever take you. Other than a good shag, you’re a complete waste of time.”

He released her hair and turned away, toward the door.

“Master, please don’t leave!” she sobbed, reaching desperately for him. “I’m sorry, I’ll—”

 _“Silencio!”_ He pointed his wand at her throat, which pinched shut, cutting off her voice. Through blurred vision, she watched his back retreat to the door. The red grid-like beams of the spell holding them in flashed for a moment, and then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Hortensia sank her face into her hands and wept violently, rocking back and forth, for several minutes. The complete silence in the room was odd, for she was causing quite a stir, and only increased her anger and despair. She stomped her feet against the floor like a toddler throwing a tantrum, just to have some noise accompany her rage. His words tore through her chest, echoing mercilessly through her mind. _You’re nothing but a worthless, disloyal whore_ … But _he_ had taken her virginity; he had made her this way. 

When the words had sliced through every nerve, eventually dulling them, she cried for the girls in the Come and Go Room, confused as to why she wasn’t there. They’d been so excited to start the Legion back up even when, for many, it was simply a distraction from the humdrum of lessons and suitors. No doubt they were having a ball, champagne flowing and laughter filling the room. And here was Hortensia, battered, cold, and kicked aside. 

After that, she cried for her mother, Peony, who was self-centered and distant but loved Hortensia in her own way. What would she think of her daughter now in this position? Probably criticism laced with disgust at how willingly she’d given herself to an older man at only sixteen. Perhaps Peony would side with Riddle and consider Hortensia a whore. The thought of it brought a scalding wave of shame as she clutched her knees and heaved with sobs. 

Finally, spent and out of tears, Hortensia let out one last long, miserable breath, picked up her robe, and wiped her face with the tail end. She realized that she was shivering not only from fear and anger but also the frigid chill in the room. Hoping the headmaster wouldn’t punish her for it, she dressed and curled back into a ball. 

Hours passed and still he did not come. Hortensia grew sleepy, but she knew he wouldn’t be pleased to find her on his bed, wrapped up in the green blanket, as appealing as it was. Eventually, she settled on sitting on the floor next to the armchair, resting her head on the soft leather edge. Only minutes later, despite the trembling, the throbbing pain, and the sorrow, she dozed off. 

She jolted awake to the door slamming and piercing red light stabbing her dry eyeballs. Through raw, puffy eyelids, she saw Riddle approach and sit on the armchair, his leg inches from her face. Ignoring her entirely, he flicked his wand a few times, conjuring bright yellow flames in the fireplace and another glass of firewhiskey. Aside from the comforting crackling of the fire and ice clinking against glass, the room was eerily quiet. 

Hortensia let out a tiny cough and realized that the silencing charm had been lifted. She did her best to wait quietly, patiently, but after a few minutes, she couldn’t take it anymore. 

“May I—may I speak, Master?” she asked timidly. Her voice scraped her raw throat, coming out high and squeaky. 

Riddle raised his eyebrows and looked down at her, the glass held up near his mouth. The expression on his face was one of such disdain, Hortensia felt the urge to curl back up and turn away. “You may.” Again, he drained the rest of the liquid in one gulp and set the glass on the table. 

She hesitated, arranging the words in her head, hoping they would come out perfectly but knowing they would not. “Master, I’m so sorry,” she finally blurted. “Please, I beg your forgiveness. I knew not what I was doing—he said one more spot of trouble and you’d expel me! I can’t bear to be away from Hogwarts, especially from you, sir!” 

“Is that so?” he asked in a sardonic tone, eyebrows still raised. “Is that why you were out after curfew, kissing that idiot little boy?” 

“That meant _nothing_ , sir,” Hortensia insisted, in kneeling position now, hands clasped together, eyes wide and desperate. “Basore means nothing to me and never will, as with any other wizard. Only you I want. I love only you!”

As soon as the words left her lips, she gasped in horror. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and she meant it. Why on Earth she loved Headmaster Riddle after all of this was beyond her, but denying her feelings was useless. Fearing his reaction, she lowered her eyes and ducked her head, touching the tip of her nose to her clasped hands. 

She heard Riddle chuckle softly and felt him caress her jaw as he parted her lips with his thumb. “How very touching, my dear.” The gentle hand turned rough as he clutched her jaw, digging his fingers into her cheeks. “But you’ve broken your vow and must be punished. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” she answered through smooshed lips. 

He released her, leaned slightly forward, and took off his black leather belt. Heart heavy with dread, Hortensia watched him fold it in half. 

“Get into position.”

Once she was draped across his knees, he had one hand on her throat, holding her in place, while the other pushed up her dress and yanked down her knickers. “Why did you get dressed?” he demanded. “Did I tell you to do so?” 

Part of her wanted to explain that she’d been cold, but there wasn’t a point when the belt was in his hand. “No, sir. I’m sorry.” 

“You’d better be sorry.” Before she could respond, she felt the sharp sting of the belt against her rear. She jerked in pain and emitted a howl. 

“I hope that hurts. You deserve it.” SMACK! 

With each blow, he hissed a line of rebuke, clutching her throat. “Do you agree that you deserve this?” SMACK! “Answer me, Hortensia.”

“I agree, sir,” she managed between heavy breaths, tears stinging her raw, red eyes. She squeezed them shut as another blow landed on top of the forming welts on her backside. 

“You’re an insubordinate little whore who needs to learn her place.” SMACK! 

“Do you understand me?” SMACK! 

“Yes, sir,” she choked out, sobbing now. His hand tightened on her throat as he ceased talking and increased the pace. 

Just as she thought she was going to pass out like the previous time, he asked, “Have you been punished enough?” 

_Yes!_ she wanted to shout, but that was not the answer he was looking for. “It’s…your decision, Master,” she gasped, fighting for breath. The skin on her bottom felt as if it was on fire. 

Thankfully, those were the right words: the belt dropped to the floor and he placed a cold, soothing hand on top of the burning welts. “Ah, perhaps you are learning...or perhaps you are merely telling me what I want to hear. You have shown yourself to be a clever, deceiving bitch after all. How do I know you really mean what you say?” 

“I do, sir,” she assured him. 

“Show me.” He took his hand away and she pushed herself off, her knees sinking to the floor. 

“How?” she asked, puzzled. 

Riddle was giving her that skeptical, condescending look again. “Work it out. You say you love me, Hortensia? Prove it.”

The only thing she could think of to do was probably the wrong thing, but she decided to attempt it anyway. On wobbly legs, she rose, climbed onto his lap, placed her shaking hands on his shoulders, and brought her mouth to his, parting his lips with her tongue. He tasted of firewhiskey—her heart would always beat faster when she smelled it, associating the scent with him. 

After a nerve-wracking moment, he began to reciprocate, sliding his hands under her dress to grip her hips. They kissed passionately for several minutes before Hortensia, casting all doubt to the wind, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and trailed her lips down his neck. She could feel his breaths growing heavier as she sucked lightly on the spot below his ear. He rocked his erection back and forth over the damp spot in her knickers. 

Then he abruptly ceased all motion, taking his hands off her hips. “It’s clear you desire me, yes, but that doesn’t prove much…”

At a loss on how to respond, Hortensia pulled away, her eyes straying to the fire, thinking hard. Suddenly, an idea sprang to her mind. After climbing off his lap, she lowered herself to her knees and pulled her dress over her head. 

“Please believe that I do love you, Master,” she said with false confidence, tossing the dress aside and removing her bra. “I want nothing more than to please you.”

With that, she unbuttoned his trousers, yanked them down, and took out his cock. She kissed the tip before enveloping it with her mouth. Instead of looking down at the forest of dark curls, she peered up at him, holding eye contact. He bit his lip and his eyes gleamed red again as he grabbed a fistful of her hair. Losing her nerve, she broke the gaze and concentrated on making love to him with her mouth, relishing the sharp inhales and tugging of her scalp. 

_“Damn,”_ he hissed as she slowly raised her head, pulling hard on the skin of his tip with her lips. She repeated it twice more, pleased with herself, until he suddenly pushed her away. 

At first, she tensed in fear of displeasing him somehow, but she saw the hungry look in his eyes, how he was staring at her like he was debating on devouring her. “Lie down on the bed,” he growled. “ _Now_. And remove your knickers.”

Hortensia did as she was told and Riddle stood over her, pushing her legs open wider, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. As usual, he took a couple of minutes to study her, his hand resting idly over his erection, which he’d pulled his pants back over. _So I’m not the only shy one_ , she thought absurdly, but it was the truth; he always remained fully clothed. 

Before she could ponder a little more on that, he leaned slightly in and slid two fingers inside of her. Immediately her back arched and her mouth fell open. As he drove inside of her faster and faster, the pads of his fingertips grazed the soft spot where a billion nerves entwined, sending waves of pleasure across her legs and torso. She bucked her hips against his hand, her toes curled, and her hands seized the blanket at her sides. “Oh, yes,” she cried, head thrown back in ecstasy. 

“Dirty Hortensia likes to be used like a slut,” he was growling, though she could barely hear him over her cries. “My little toy… Would you like me to take you now, darling? Do you want me to ravage you until you can’t walk?”

Her instinct was to yell, “Yes, please!” but she had a better answer: “It’s...your decision, Master.” 

“Ah-ha-ha.” He was smirking as he lowered himself over her. “Now you’re listening. As it so happens, I’ve decided to give you what you want.”

At first, he was gentle, kissing her and moving slowly, but as his thrusts grew harder and faster, he pulled away and squeezed her breasts. She scrunched her face up and moaned. 

Then she felt his hand on her cheek, turning her face into the mattress. It hurt, for that was the cheek he’d struck earlier, but she didn’t speak up. Soon she hardly felt it, too busy hurtling toward the edge of release. “Oh, Master, _yes_!” she howled as she climaxed, pounding the mattress with her fists. He followed suit a moment later. Instead of collapsing on top of her, he moved away, adjusted his clothing, and spread her apart to watch the hot fluid trickling out onto a small puddle below. 

When Hortensia sat up, dizzy and feeling like she was filled with nothing but air, she groped for her clothing, but Riddle pushed her back onto the bed. “Get under the cover and go to sleep,” he ordered without a trace of warmth.

Conversely, when she lay down, he sat on the edge of the bed and caressed her cheek, tracing the edge of her jaw with his cool fingertips. 

“I wonder, are you really mine?” he asked quietly, brushing her hair off her face. “Or am I going to have to repeat your punishment many times more? Perhaps I should give up.”

“No, sir, please don’t give up!” Her eyes welled up at the very thought. “I am yours, Master, I promise.”

“You’ve promised before…”

“I made a mistake… I lack self-control,” she admitted, gaze shifting to the fireplace. 

He toyed with her plump bottom lip, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “That is an understatement, dear. You must work to prove yourself trustworthy. Otherwise I’ll have to find another witch.”

Hortensia’s heart sank as she imagined another girl in her position with _her_ master. This time, tears trickled down to her temples, which she was too weary to wipe away. She wondered if there had been other girls before her, others he paid special attention to and made love to and called his. Perhaps that’s who Merope was, a former student who’d won Headmaster Riddle’s affections. If so, what had happened to her?

Riddle suddenly let out a short chuckle, startling her. He wiped her tears away. “Curious thing you are. There has never been a student before you. None have been worthy.”

She smiled, glowing with pride. Though she hadn’t an idea how she’d earned the title, she felt worthy all the same, for once in her life. 

“Merope was my mother,” he continued. “Through her, I am directly descended from the noble Salazar Slytherin, from the purest, most valuable wizarding bloodline.”

“Oh, she must be very powerful, too,” said Hortensia. His ancestry was common knowledge around Hogwarts, but him telling her personally felt almost as if he was sharing intimate information with her. 

He shook his head. “Was—she died giving birth to me. And no, she wasn’t powerful. She was weak and besotted. She behaved pathetically and succumbed to death without a fight.”

He delivered this without bitterness, but she could sense somehow that it was a sore subject. 

“That is the way of witches. They are inherently weak-willed. They lack the strength and discipline of a wizard, so oftentimes it is up to a wizard to provide a firm hand to guide them.”

Hortensia heard every word, but she felt like she’d missed something, for she didn’t quite understand. Was he saying she was weak? She was, evidently, but according to Riddle’s words, it was solely because she was a witch. She did not agree, since that went against every word she’d ever spoken to the Legion, but she knew she needed his guidance, needed him. 

He stroked the side of her face tenderly and kissed her on the lips. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I am more than willing to guide you. Sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After another soft kiss, he pulled the blanket up to her chin and left the room. 

She should have been comforted that he wasn’t planning on replacing her. She loved him with all of her hear, but could she ever trust him not to hurt her? The answer was a solid no. 

_All you’ve got to do is behave the way he wants_ , she told herself, _and he’s yours_. She was finally relaxing, her breathing slowing down. Still, even as she drifted away into warmth and darkness, his words tugged at her. The reason for that couldn’t be deciphered, but she felt it lurking just beneath the surface of her conscious mind.

*********


	5. Submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, readers: I wrote this part out and decided I didn't want to end it here, so what was SUPPOSED TO BE a one-shot is now going to be a 6-part...thing. Anyway, without further ado...chapter 5.

V: Submission

_15 November 1963_

Seventh year turned out to be the most difficult by far. NEWT classes were no joke, and the professors sure didn’t play around when it came to assignments and tests. Even though Hortensia was perhaps the only one concerned about her marks, she strove to earn high ones all the same. On the Hogwarts Express, she made a vow to herself that she was going to stay out of trouble for good. She couldn’t afford any.

She let Euphemia Rowle take over the Witches’ Legion, as much as it pained her to give it up. There wasn’t a point, it seemed, to fighting for better lives for witches when her own was such a mess. Slowly, mercifully, it started to clean up as her marks improved.

The real reward, however, was not high marks or the showering of praise by the professors, although those were certainly bonuses. It came in the form of a letter delivered by a nervous first-year one day in mid-November:

_Miss Travers,_

_Please come to my office at 6:00 this evening and do your best to be on time._

_T.M. Riddle_

A twist of excitement pinched her chest as she tucked the note away, intending to save it forever. She hadn’t caused any ruckus since the last school year, so he couldn’t be punishing her for anything. Though with Headmaster Riddle, she thought, one can never be sure. She wasn’t very good at predicting his behavior.

At 5:55, Hortensia, under the assumption that he hadn’t changed the password, whispered “Merope” to the stone gargoyle guarding his office. Her blood raced through her veins, while her tongue was lazy and heavy in contrast. She raised white knuckles to the oak double-doors and knocked softly on the right one.

 _You’re fine, dear, you’ve done nothing wrong_ , an oddly calm internal voice told her.

“Enter,” said the headmaster.

Hortensia gently pushed open the door to see him seated at his desk, which was clear of parchment and books, hands folded, watching her.

“Good evening, Miss Travers,” he said in a pleasant tone, boring into her with his dark eyes. As he probed her mind—nothing of interest to him there—the portraits, all awake, stared at her as well as she stood awkwardly, making for a quite uncomfortable moment.

“Good evening, Professor,” she managed to say at last. “You have requested me?”

“Indeed.” He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Please sit down.”

The chair was different: instead of the soft velvet one, it was small and wooden like the ones in the classrooms. She supposed the other was reserved for meetings with staff, while this one was for wayward students that had the misfortune of landing themselves here during school hours. She realized that she’d never been in the office this early. The afternoon sun was streaming in the large window to her right, bathing the office in bright orange.

Riddle opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out what looked like a file. She was able to make out _Travers, Hortensia Julia_ stamped on the front before he opened it. On the first page was her horrid eleven-year-old-self smiling in a photo, and underneath that, she assumed, was her family lineage. Thankfully the headmaster did not linger on that page but flipped to the very last, which had her current timetable.

“A few of your professors have spoken to me about the improvement in your marks and behavior. They believe that when you are sufficiently occupied, you’re inclined not only to stay in line but excel. That leads me to why I’ve summoned you, which is because I have a proposal for you.”

Hortensia nodded eagerly. She was not in trouble, and Riddle wanted her to…well, she hadn’t an idea what he was going to say, since all the portraits were listening.

“A colleague of mine by the name of Cygnus Black works in the International Confederation. Do you know of him?”

“Yes, sir.” The Black family was one of the wealthiest and powerful in all of Magical Britain. And the most raving mad, according to her mother’s friend, Catherine Selwyn.

“He has asked me to fill his secretary position at the Ministry with one of my top students. His specific request was for a good writer and speaker, and though you’ve driven me up the wall with that witches group, I’ve got to say your skills are exactly what he’s looking for.”

Hortensia let her mouth fall open, unsure if she’d heard correctly. Not daring to believe it, she quickly collected herself.

“I take it you are interested?”

“Of course, sir,” she said enthusiastically, clasping her hands together. He could probably see the answer on her face. Though not her first choice, secretary to such a high-ranked official meant stability and enough money to live on her own, which she would need by the end of the year. Such a job would exempt her from the woe-inducing task of finding a husband.

“Yes, the Ministry is operating much better these days,” the headmaster said, more to himself than her. Behind him, a grimace contorted Armando Dippet’s face for half a second. “You will need experience, correct? If you’re willing to assist me in this office with paperwork and the like… Let’s say once a week, and I’ll send you straight there when you finish school. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, fighting the urge to grin. More time with Riddle and a gateway to employment? She never would’ve predicted such good fortune.

“Excellent. When would you like to start?”

“Now.” The word left her lips without circulating through her brain. It was the solid truth: she’d spent months yearning for the man sitting across from her.

Riddle smiled and shook his head. “Perhaps you should eat first. Come back in about two hours.”

“Yes, sir.” Hortensia supposed this was time to go, so she stood and unconsciously smoothed down her robes. “Until then—thank you,” she added before leaving the office.

Two hours—what to do in two hours? She went to the emptying Great Hall and found that she couldn’t eat. Thus, the majority of the time was passed in front of the mirror on her desk in the dormitory, brushing her hair. It fell to her shoulders now; she’d cut it in frustration at the end of a stifling hot summer. Under her robes were undergarments she’d had to dip into the muggle world to buy for fear of being recognized in Diagon Alley.

Finally, her watch read eight-thirty after the hands moved lazily for eternity. Hortensia strode to the headmaster’s tower as if she belonged there. Faking confidence had helped her last time and she hoped it would be the same now. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the oak doors for the second time.

“Enter,” said the headmaster.

As usual, he was seated at his desk, now with stacks of books and parchment piled on top. Across the room underneath the window was a smaller desk with rolls of parchment and a typewriter. Without looking up from his notes, Riddle pointed his quill in that direction. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a spell yet invented to enchant it to type on its own. However, it does correct mistakes automatically.”

Hortensia took a seat and looked over the machine. She’d never touched one before, but she’d seen it used a few times, so she would be able to figure it out. Helpfully, a long scroll of blank parchment was already set in place.

By the end of the first page, she gleaned that she was typing copies of weekly reports to the Head of Magical Education Department, Abraxas Malfoy. Oddly, the tone of the reports was not quite what one would expect between headmaster and Ministry official. Riddle was informing Malfoy which regulations he was going to lift and alter, rather than asking for permission to do so. Soon Hortensia stopped paying attention to the words, since many of the reports were similar, and focused on typing with more than just her two index fingers. At that rate, she’d be there all night.

Not that she wasn’t thrilled to be there. Just being in the office gave her a warm feeling she hadn’t had in quite a bit. The portraits muttered to each other nearby, unnoticed by the rest. In concentrating on the keys, she was able to block everything else weighing on her mind. She didn’t even notice Riddle standing up and leaving until the door to his chambers slammed shut.

Hortensia started, looked around, and realized he’d left her alone in the office. Immediately, the portraits plunged into full-fledged bickering while she sat frozen, unsure of what to do. This went on for a roaring five minutes until Dilys Derwent shouted, “ENOUGH! Let the girl work in peace!”

Dilys evidently had some authority: they all settled down instantly, though as she typed, she could hear harsh whispers.

An hour or two passed and soon the sounds of light snoring filled the office. Riddle was still not back and Hortensia was well over halfway through the reports. She’d intended to finish them unless instructed otherwise, but somewhere along the line, her head dropped into her arms and she dozed off on the desk.

Just as she reached the land of dreams, her eyes snapped open as she was being shaken gently awake.

“Hortensia,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Come with me.”

Blinking in confusion, she lifted her head and found her face inches from the typewriter. In the moonlight, the machine looked cold and menacing, as if it would suddenly spring to life.

Riddle was pulling her hair back, trailing his fingers along the curve of her neck. It felt so wonderful, her eyes closed and she nearly dozed off again. Then he gave her hair a swift tug, jolting her awake.

“Come.” Slightly less patient now, he let go and tugged on the sleeve of her robe. She stood and followed him through the office and into the bedroom.

Once inside, he set up the wards and pushed her toward the large leather armchair. As she advanced toward it, it changed into a small table, two chairs, and two goblets resting on the table. A second later, the fireplace lit up and a wave of warmth spread through the chilly room.

She thought they would sit and drink the champagne in silence like a previous time, but he didn’t touch his goblet or even sit. He walked over to the desk, which had a record player she’d never seen in there before.

He dropped the needle on the record and a slow but merry tune started to play. She recognized it instantly, despite the song being older than Hortensia herself.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with popular music these days,” Riddle told her, facing away from her and watching the record play. “I am still stuck in 1945 in that regard.”

She smiled as Maria Lambetti’s smooth voice filled the air. “I know this song. My mum played it often when I was younger.”

“Yes, your mother and I are close in age,” he said, taking a seat. “Some of our Hogwarts years overlapped, if I recall correctly.”

Hortensia did not answer, lost in dismal thoughts about her mother. They’d had a huge row over the summer after Hortensia told her she didn’t wish to marry by next year. _I’ll not harbor a useless tart_ , Peony had spat. _You’re of age now, you’re not welcome back here without a proposal._

The words had stung then and they brought forth a heavy, painful ache in her chest now. She set the goblet down and sank her head in her hands. A moment later, Riddle was behind her, pulling her hair away from her neck again.

“Come here,” he whispered, his breath tickling her cheek.

He sat on the bed and pulled her onto his lap. As soon as she got herself situated, facing him and tucking her hair behind her ears, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Hortensia closed her eyes as the inner turmoil and anxiety over her mother’s words melted away, replaced by arousal. She relished the feel of his lips and tongue on hers, his hands around her waist. There was nowhere else she’d rather be and no one else on Earth she loved more, and she wanted to prove it. When they broke apart to catch their breaths, she took off her robe and dress, revealing her undergarments.

Riddle raised his eyebrows as he took in her appearance. With satisfaction, she could tell he liked what he saw. Her bra, knickers, and hose were all a sheer black and trimmed with lace. The bra pushed her breasts together, enhancing them. Looking like this, she was not shy Hortensia but a confident, alluring woman. Only once did she feel the urge to cover herself, but she kept her arms firmly at her sides and puffed out her chest slightly.

“Well, well, well,” said the headmaster, running his hands over her breasts and down her torso, awakening a tingle of intense desire between her legs. “My little seductress. Pity you will look like this only for the next second, though your effort is appreciated. Come here.”

Once he unclasped her bra and yanked it off, he grabbed her breasts, causing her to inhale sharply, and rocked her back and forth. Then he let go, pulled her closer, and slowly moved his hands across her hips and rear.

“I’ve been thinking about you quite a bit this year,” he said as she held onto his shoulders and rubbed herself against the bulge in his trousers.

His words, spoken in that low growl of his that instantly turned her on, further exacerbated her want. Unconcerned about his reaction, she held the side of his neck with one hand and kissed him with abandon. His fingers were digging into her rear now, but she was too overcome with arousal to feel any pain. She nipped softly at the skin of his neck like he’d done so many times to her.

“Eager little thing…”

“I want you so much, Master,” she breathed in his ear, hoping she sounded enticing and not like she needed to clear her throat.

He nudged her slightly to sit up. “I am pleased to hear that, but I don’t only want your body. I want all of you to be mine.”

“I am yours, sir,” she assured him, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. Hadn’t they gone over this last time? There was a mere three thin layers of cloth separating her from his cock, and she wanted them gone now.

“Are you willing to prove it?” he asked in a threatening tone, staring at her intently.

“Yes, sir.” Without hesitation, her hands flew to his belt buckle and she leaned in, ready to meet his lips, but he grabbed her chin and pushed her back.

“Not like that. I am aware of your attraction to me, Hortensia, but it’s going to take more than sexual pleasure to give yourself to me. Stand up.”

Feeling vulnerable and slightly ill, Hortensia climbed off his lap and obeyed, crossing her arms over her chest. Riddle stood as well, taking a pile of her clothes with him to the desk. With a wave of his wand, the record player, which had gone silent long ago, unnoticed, landed with a gentle thud on the floor. Meanwhile, he spread her robe on the top of the desk, turned to her, and pointed. “Sit there.”

Insides squirming in discomfort, Hortensia again did as she was told, hoisting herself onto the desk. What on Earth did he want from her, if nothing sexual? She’d finally felt as if she was falling into a rhythm with the headmaster and now this.

Once she was in position, Riddle pulled the chair out and stood in front of her, studying her. Despite her raging nerves, Hortensia ached for him to touch her but he only gazed at her until finally, he reached out a hand. Only the cool pads of his fingertips trailed down her stomach, pulling her knickers down slightly. “Yes…right here, I think.”

She frowned, waiting for an explanation, but he told her only, “Lie down.”

When she didn’t obey right away, lost in confusion, he gave her a not-so-gentle nudge. She lie on her back, looking up at the ceiling. He still had her knickers pulled down, exposing just a peek of dark fuzz, stroking a specific spot near her hip. Then she felt the tip of his wand poke her and an intense, searing pain shot through the skin and bone.

“Augh!” she cried out, the back of her head slamming into the edge of the desk. “What—?”

“Relax. I have marked you. You may sit up and have a look but do so very slowly.” Riddle held out his hands to help her up. When she looked down, she recoiled and let out a gasp.

On a blotch of red, puffy skin just below her abdomen and along the line of dark fuzz were two letters etched in bold black: 

_LV_

“What does that stand for, sir?” asked Hortensia, bewildered.

“You will find out soon enough,” Riddle responded, tucking his wand away and taking a seat on the chair. “Now lie back down and let it settle for a few minutes.”

She reclined, the raw skin stinging as it stretched taut. She wondered if she was supposed to lie still the entire time, but then she felt her knickers slowly peeling away from the damp skin between her legs. They slid further down until they were off completely. Assuming he was going to study her again, except up close this time, she kept her eyes trained on the ceiling.

Sure enough, he propped up her legs, but immediately, she felt hot breath against her most sensitive skin, spreading a tingle through her entire body. A half a second later, his lips were on the soft pink flesh, tugging it into his mouth while his tongue pressed against the nub, sending powerful shivers up her spine.

All else was immediately forgotten. Hortensia closed her eyes, arched her back, and let out a heavy sigh of pleasure. Slowly, he pulled and released, pulled and released, without taking his mouth off her. Her face scrunched up and she started to whimper, rocking her hips. Meanwhile, her hands found his, gripping her thighs, and clasped onto them.

“Master,” she gasped, driving the back of her head into the desk and lifting her legs higher, feet in the air. “That feels so good!”

He pulled away, stood up, and tugged at her hands until she sat up. “You taste so good, see?” He grabbed her chin again and slammed his mouth against hers. She tasted her own fluid, though this wasn’t the first time, but surprisingly no firewhiskey. Evidently, he hadn’t had any.

Kissing her even harder, he tightened his fist around a clump of her hair and plunged two fingers inside of her. As she moaned against his mouth and cheek, he spoke to her in harsh, urgent whispers.

“Naughty little whore likes it rough. Yes, you enjoy this, I see. Can’t get enough of it, can you, dirty girl?”

As she ascended higher into the heavens, her fist clutched the fabric of his robes and drove into his back. Just as she was about to tip over the brink, he pulled his fingers out and yanked her hair, bringing tears to her eyes.

“Master…” she cried as he jerked her head back. “Don’t stop!”

Riddle leaned in to speak in her ear as he rested his hand on the slick, aching skin between her legs. “You want it? Beg for it, slut.”

“Please…”

“Please what?”

She could feel his fingertips curling into her entrance, ready to thrust, but still they wouldn’t move. “Please, Master, please touch me.”

“Why should I?” He was playing with her, fighting back a smile.

“I want you to,” Hortensia pleaded, frustration welling in her chest. “Please!”

Riddle scoffed and tilted his head, a sneer crossing his face. “I don’t care what you want.” But after a sharp slap to the pink skin, bringing forth a yelp, he continued with his fingers.

It took only a minute to release hot fluid all over his hand. She pressed her cheek against his and let out a drawn-out cross between a moan and a sigh. He took his hand away, yanked her head back once more, and thrust his fingers between her lips.

“Dirty Hortensia likes to use her mouth,” he said, almost as if taunting her, sliding his fingers slowly in and out until she’d sucked them clean.

Shaking and breathing heavily, Hortensia pressed her palms down on top of the desk to hold herself up. She wanted to close her wobbly legs, but Riddle was surveying her again and she knew he would protest.

Her head tilted back as he entered her, her breath quickening again. She was thoroughly enjoying herself—until his hands moved from her hips to her throat, closing around it.

“No!” she choked out, her hand grabbing his wrist on its own accord.

“Relax,” he commanded breathlessly. “I won’t hurt you.”

“No…please!” Hortensia knew she was treading on thin ice, surely angering him, but she was terrified. With good reason: he’d once throttled her unconscious. Just the memory of it turned her blood cold and sapped her of arousal.

Though he didn’t let go, he loosened his grip and leaned back. “You don’t trust me, Hortensia.”

She didn’t want to agree. She wanted to contradict his statement, to assure him that she did trust him, but she knew better than to lie to him. How could she love someone she didn’t trust? She was a terrible lover, terrible daughter, all around terrible…

Riddle, upon realizing the encounter wasn’t going to progress, let go of her, pulled out, and adjusted his clothing while she curled up, covering her face. Humiliatingly enough, she couldn’t stop the flow of tears no matter how hard she tried. 

_Get it together!_ Her mind screamed. _Now, or you’ll really be in trouble!_ Her body did not comply. 

However, she was not in trouble, not with the headmaster, at least. Without a word, he placed a hand on her back and guided her to the bed. 

Still sniffling, she wiped her eyes to see him pulling down the blanket, revealing soft white sheets. “Lie down.”

Hortensia climbed into the bed and brought the blanket up to her chin. Briefly, she wondered how awful her face looked, since her makeup was probably smeared everywhere. 

Next to her, Riddle sat propped up on a pillow with his legs straight out. Even his socks were black, she noticed. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close against his chest, stroking her hair. She was immensely relieved that he wasn’t angry, but she felt awful for disappointing him. 

“Tell me why you don’t trust me.”

Their position didn’t allow for eye contact, which made it easier for Hortensia to speak a bit more freely than she would have otherwise. After a large swallow, she said, “You hurt me.”

“Yes, I know,” he responded casually. “I had to. How else would you have learned your place? Look at you now—so obedient, excellent marks, loyal and eager to please...the ideal witch.”

This warmed her slightly, but she didn’t understand why all the violence was necessary. 

“You would have never learned otherwise,” Riddle continued. “How could you? With no father or husband to behave properly for, you were free to give into all your urges. A seventeen-year-old girl isn’t capable of restraining herself on her own.

“That first evening when Professor Slughorn brought you to me, I knew you were capable of being my perfect girl. Did you think I chose you because you are beautiful? Or perhaps because you were simply there at a convenient time? Because you were easy to take?” 

Hortensia’s cheeks flushed at the word “easy,” but she didn’t open her mouth. 

“No. I wanted you, but you needed discipline. Still do, no doubt. I only want the best for you, Hortensia, so you must trust me. Do you understand?”

She nodded, but something was still nagging at her. 

“You are reluctant, I see,” Riddle prompted. “What else is bothering you?” 

At first, she couldn’t catch it, but a minute later, she remembered the speech he’d given her last time about the nature of witches. “How can all witches be weak, sir? There have been so many strong ones, like Rowena Ravenclaw and Dilys Derwent.” 

Riddle’s hand stilled in her hair, but he resumed the petting a moment later. “There are exceptions, of course, to everything. Witches in general are weak because they are born that way. I’m not quite sure why that is, since I’m no expert in biology.” 

Hortensia knew of biology from years of Herbology lessons, but she didn’t understand what plant life had to do with witches. However, she had more pressing questions, such as, “So I’m not an exception, then? That’s the reason for the...discipline, to make me stronger?” 

“Yes, now you are understanding, clever girl. Only with suffering does the weakness fade, replaced with power you never would have dreamed of owning.”

She bit her lip, mulling it over. As much as she didn’t like the idea of more suffering, his words made sense and she did want to be strong for him. Perhaps he did want the best for her, after all. Why else would he spend all this time and energy on her, risking his position? She could’ve ran off and told anyone in the castle at any time, but he knew she wouldn’t. He must have trusted her…

She tightened her arms around him and nuzzled her face into his chest. “I trust you, Master, and I love you.” 

“Good to hear,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Now let’s resume what we started, shall we?” 

Without waiting for a response, he pushed her flat on her back and grabbed her face to kiss her. After a minute, he sat up, undoing his trousers with one hand and pulling out his wand with the other. 

“Let’s get those pesky hands out of the way first,” he said with a smirk. _“Incarcerous!”_

Ropes wrapped around her wrists, yanking her arms outward and binding her to the bedposts. As Hortensia looked on, heart thumping in her chest, Riddle explored her body with his hands and eyes. Contrary to his gentle comfort when she’d been crying, he handled her roughly, almost viciously, slapping her breasts and between her legs, ignoring her yelps. 

“Now it’s time to play my way,” he said, digging into her hip. “You are truly _mine_ and I will do with you what I please.” 

He was stroking himself, but she couldn’t see that far. In the fading firelight, she could see his hungry, almost furious expression as he stared at her. _Trust him, trust him,_ her mind said as she willed her muscles to loosen. 

Without warning, he seized the delicate skin between her legs and squeezed as she cried out in pain. “Aroused again, I see. My filthy whore can never get enough.” He entered her with force, thrusting without pause. His hands wrapped around her throat again, but after an initial jolt of fear, she relaxed, as he was giving light pressure. _Trust him, trust him…_

As he finished, Riddle seemed to lose control and clamped down on her throat hard enough to bring colorful spots to her eyes, but he let go in the next second. He jumped to his feet, leaving Hortensia panting, chest heaving. Her legs ached as she let them drop, and she realized her hands had gone numb. 

To her surprise, Riddle released her wrists and began to undress, leaving on his shirt, pants, and socks, before climbing into the bed as she rubbed her hands together to revive them. He lie down next to her and held her close. Smiling, she nestled her head under his chin while he ran his fingers through her hair, hitting the sweet spot at the nape of her neck. 

She clung to him, sighing, “I love you,” to his chest. Against her cheek, she could feel the thumping of his heart. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to; she knew he loved her. At last she was completely and utterly safe in his arms. 

_Whatever it takes to please him_ , she vowed silently as a pleasant haze filled her mind and the last of the fire burned out, leaving the air an inky black. _To be his perfect witch._

*********


	6. Ownership

VI: Ownership 

_19 September 1964_

Like every other Friday evening, as soon as Hortensia arrived from the Ministry, she sat by the window and looked out onto the Hogwarts grounds. It was late, eight o’clock. She’d been held up organizing the never-ending pile of paperwork for the following Monday.

From the headmaster’s bedroom, there was a door behind which narrow steps led to another, smaller chamber on the second floor, inaccessible from any other part of the castle. This floor contained a small room with a bed, a bathroom, a seating area with small table, and, most often used, a bookshelf next to a large window. On the other side of the window was a tiny fireplace that only allowed travel by Floo to the Ministry. 

Since the weather was warm, there were students dotting the Quidditch Pitch and grouped under trees. The sixth and seventh-years seemed so much younger than her, even though she’d finished Hogwarts only a year ago. 

Also like other Friday nights, Hortensia took up her sewing—she was making a quilt that would hopefully be warmer than the one provided—and reflected on her work week. 

If Cygnus Black was as mad as they claimed, he hid it well, for he appeared similar to every other pureblood male she knew. Arrogant, demanding, womanizing. Yet except for an occasional hand on the small of her back or blatant once-over of her body, the Head of the International Confederation was generally harmless and amicable toward her. He called her Tensy and gave her a certain amount of trust with his files. For example, she typed up all of his responses to the headmaster. 

The sun was sinking behind the castle. Soon it would be dark, damp, and cold, so the tiny dots started moving toward the entrance, either on foot or broomstick. Hortensia leaned her chin on her palm, watching her breath fog up the window. Her mind ran off and eventually circled back to the same frequent topic, a snippet of conversation overheard two days earlier. 

Cygnus had been speaking to someone in his office with the door slightly ajar. Hers was next door and she kept it open in case he called for her. 

In between the clicking of the keys on the typewriter, she’d heard “he’s at Hogwarts,” and paused, tuning in. 

“Who is at Hogwarts?” his cohort, a man named something Mulciber asked. He was one Hortensia quite disliked due to his constant leering at her while in the same room as her. 

“The Dark Lord,” Cygnus replied in a quiet, oddly reverent tone. 

“That’s the one, then? Lord Voldemort?” 

“Shh! We are forbidden to speak his proper name, you dunce, do you not remember?” 

“Right, right…”

An odd flutter had awakened inside Hortensia’s stomach as she repeated the name inside her head. _Lord Voldemort_. She’d never heard such a name, but it still sounded familiar and clearly the source of her unease. Why? She pondered as she watched the stars peek out from the evening sky. 

“Hortensia,” a voice said softly behind her, causing her to start and turn around. 

Headmaster Riddle, as regal and handsome as ever, was standing in the doorframe—there had never been a door—and watching her. She hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. 

“Good evening,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes and falling to her knees, greeting him properly in accordance with one of his many rules. 

“Join me downstairs in one hour.”

“Of course, Master,” she answered, heart lifting. It had been weeks since he’d asked her to spend any time with him. 

He was gone before the words fully left her mouth. She rose and headed to the wardrobe for the specific outfit he required her to wear: a dress with a modest top but was quite short, plain pink undergarments, and white knee socks. 

As she dressed, she caught sight of the letters Riddle had stamped into her skin, just as stark against her fair skin as when they were first etched there. Since they were tiny, she often forgot about them entirely. _LV_ , she read absentmindedly, pulling her knickers over the initials. Then immediately following as if her brain had known all along, _Lord Voldemort._

 _Oh, my God._

All of the air dissipated for a moment as Hortensia stood frozen in her socks and knickers. The Dark Lord, leader of the murderous band of terrorists known as the Knights of Walpurgis, was the same person as the one who’d requested her presence downstairs. 

She shook her head, resuming activity. No, that was impossible. It was no secret that Riddle condemned the inclusion of muggleborns in wizarding society—after all, who didn’t, besides those of lesser blood themselves?—but he’d never condone murder. He was the _headmaster of Hogwarts_ , for Merlin’s sake. 

Yet even as she continued to reassure herself, she knew the words were hollow. 

The remainder of the hour was spent brushing her hair and teeth, and applying makeup. Not too much, since Riddle didn’t like it. No bows in her hair, for he didn’t like those, either. 

He wasn’t in his chamber when the hour was up, so Hortensia assumed the proper position, sitting on the rug in front of the large leather armchair, back straight and hands folded. She shifted restlessly, wishing she could tuck her legs under herself. The fireplace was empty, the floor was cold, and the little dress barely covered her rear. Thankfully, Riddle came about twenty minutes later, pointing his wand at the door behind him. She averted her eyes as neon red light flooded the room for half a second. 

Before he was even seated, the headmaster had conjured a blazing fire, a goblet of firewhiskey, and some other dish on the small table behind her. The crackling flames helped her relax if only slightly. 

After another hour of silence, Hortensia wondered if this would turn out like their last encounter three weeks ago, when he’d fetched her only to ignore her at his side for the entire evening. When he was done with her, he’d dismissed her instead of taking her to his bed. She hoped that, if nothing else, there would be some sexual engagement. 

All hope of that was dashed a second later, when a harried voice rang out from behind the door. “Tom? I’m sorry to wake you, but there was an incident in the fourth-floor corridor…”

Riddle stood swiftly and left the room. “Not to worry, Horace, you didn’t wake me,” he assured Professor Slughorn as he kicked the door closed behind him. 

Hortensia was forbidden to make noise, otherwise she would’ve heaved an exasperated sigh. Who knew how long she’d be sitting in the same dull position? Though it wasn’t any worse than sitting alone upstairs, she supposed. At least here she had a better chance of earning Riddle’s attention. 

She stretched out her arms, massaged her lower back, and checked out the table. The unidentified dish turned out to be a ceramic bowl filled with berries, untouched. 

Riddle returned much earlier than expected and only a few minutes after settling in, he spoke to her. 

“How are things at the Ministry, Hortensia?” 

“Very well, sir,” she responded eagerly, for it was the truth. “I’m getting on with everyone in the department.”

“Glad to hear it,” he replied, but his voice had flattened a bit. Best not to bore him now, she chided herself. Then he asked, “Do they trust you?” 

Hortensia nodded. “Oh, yes. Amalthea Sullivan has asked me to go skating with her next weekend. Would—would it be alright if I went?” Though she knew the answer was likely to be no, she turned and glanced up at him hopefully. She enjoyed Amalthea Sullivan’s company and quite wanted to pass time with her outside of work. 

“No,” Riddle said before taking a sip of his goblet while she tried not to visibly deflate. “ _My_ witch, going out polished up for everyone to see? Absolutely not.”

“I won’t be polished up, sir,” she insisted in a pleading note. “I’ll dress in plain robes—” 

The loud SLAP echoing around the room registered before the flash of his hand or the sharp sting to her lips. 

“I said no,” he repeated in an icy, dangerous voice. 

Gingerly touching her swollen lips, eyes brimming with tears, she turned around and sat properly. She was angry, not at her master, of course, but because she really wanted to leave the castle and go skating with a girlfriend. It had been ages since she’d had more than idle conversation or let her hair down. Before she could stop it, a lone tear dripped out, running down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away and sniffled as quietly as she could. 

Of course, he could still hear it. She tensed up but surprisingly, he gently pushed her hair off her neck and caressed it with his cool hand. Her eyes closed and she resisted the urge to lean into his touch. It had been so long since she’d had it. 

“Turn around and face me on your knees,” Riddle commanded softly. 

Hortensia did as she was told, sitting on her legs with her head inclined. After a beat, a berry pressed against her lower lip. Instinctively, her mouth opened and he placed the berry on her tongue. He fed her two more, but the third he squeezed as he slid it in her mouth. It burst, the juices pooling on her tongue. He dragged his finger across her lip, smearing it with juice. 

“Take off your dress,” he ordered gruffly, watching her lick her lips with a flash of hunger in his eyes. 

She complied, pulling the dress over her head and letting it drop onto the floor nearby. 

“This too.” He snapped her bra strap harshly against her shoulder. 

“Yes, sir.”

Once she was topless, he resumed feeding her the berries, crushing them up and smearing them on his fingers for her to suck. Slowly, sensually, she closed her lips around his knuckles and licked off the juice as he slid his fingers in and out of her mouth. She’d never thought eating fruit could be so erotic, yet her knickers were dampening. 

“Look at me.”

As he pulled his index finger through her lips, she raised her eyes to him. How she had missed that manic gleam of lust in his eyes. She was the luckiest in the world to be the object of his desire. “May I please you, Master?” she panted, burning from head to toe with want. 

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Be my guest, darling.”

Hortensia hesitated before reaching for his belt buckle. It was still a struggle to keep her confidence up despite how strongly she wanted him. Keeping her eyes on his, she undid his trousers, slipped her hand underneath, and pulled out his cock, which was rock-hard and waiting for her. 

She had enough experience by then to know that he liked not only when she took it fully in her mouth, but when she made love to it, worshiped it. Slowly and deliberately, she dragged her tongue across the shaft, pulling the thin, velvet-like skin between her lips. 

“That’s my good girl,” Riddle said in between heavy breaths, wrapping his fist in her hair. “You see what better uses there are for that nice little mouth? Yes, like that darling…”

He tightened his hold on her hair and bore down on the back of her head, pushing the tip down her throat. To avoid choking, Hortensia pressed her palms against his legs, but he conjured thick ropes, which pulled her hands behind her back and bound her wrists together. 

After some gagging and tears, he pulled it out of her mouth and yanked her hair until she crawled onto his lap. His cool fingertips reached behind her and raked at her knickers until they were out of the way, while he held her against him, elbow digging into her back. 

A heavy sigh of pleasure laced her breath, muffled by his neck as he entered her. The only way to reciprocate was to rock her hips back and forth, but his thrusts deep inside were more than enough to spread ecstasy through her nerves. 

“Would you like to climax?” he hissed as he upped the pace, digging his fingers into her rear and tugging the roots of her hair. 

“Yes, Master,” she whimpered, ready to tip over the brink. 

To her immense frustration, he stopped and pulled out. She hadn’t a single second to react, however, for he stood up, holding her by the rear, and threw her violently to the bed. Her face collided with the mattress, stinging her lips again. 

“Bend your knees,” he told her, gripping her waist. “That’s it, arse up. Silly girl, did you really think you could seduce your way out of trouble? I’m not going to simply forget about your insubordination earlier.”

The sound of metal against metal and leather sliding swiftly against fabric reached her ears, filling her chest with dread. 

“Time for the disobedient whore to learn her lesson,” he announced a second before whipping the belt across plump, snow-white flesh. 

Hortensia cried out, but it didn’t become unbearable until the sixth or seventh time, when she felt her knickers rip, along with the top layer or two of her skin.

“Looks like I’ve got to start on the other side,” Riddle taunted cheerfully, giving the raw skin a slight smack. 

“No, Master, please!” she bawled. “Please don’t, sir!” 

“Shut up.” He gave her a much harder hit, bringing forth a wail of agony. On the upside, he dropped the belt and tore her knickers clean off. 

“Yet you’re dripping wet,” he sneered, rubbing the pink skin between her legs roughly and slapping it a couple of times. “Never enough for filthy Hortensia. Come here.” 

He seized her hair and pulled her upright. Before she could take an adequate breath, he reached around and jammed her knickers in her mouth. 

“That ought to keep you quiet,” he growled in her ear as he entered her from behind, clutching her throat with both hands. This lasted only a couple of pumps before he decided that he wanted her in a different position, shoving her down onto her side and grabbing ahold of her legs. With her feet on his shoulders, he gripped her burning bottom and raised her hips as he filled her again, ramming into her without pause. 

Muffled cries escaped through the fabric in her mouth as she hurtled toward release. He smacked her a few times—her breasts and once on her cheek, backhanded—but the pleasure outweighed the pain. 

Perhaps since he’d made her wait so long for it, the burst of release was stronger than ever before. A noise between a howl and a song rose from her throat, strangled by the cloth. Her senses overloaded, stars dotting her vision and bells ringing in her ears. She was so overtaken, she didn’t realize Riddle had also finished until warm, wet drops escaped and landed on her abdomen. 

He instantly let go and turned his back to her as she landed hard on her bound wrists. Wincing in pain, she heaved herself up into a sitting position, legs clasped together, and spat out the ball of cloth to catch her breath. The fluid ran down and pooled in the crease of her leg. 

Riddle, back to his cool, collected self, turned around, dipped his fingers into the fluid, and brought them to her mouth, pressing against her tongue. Once he withdrew them, he released her wrists and returned to his armchair as if he’d been sitting in it all evening. 

Hortensia had to admit that her own fluid tasted better, though she’d take that opinion to the grave. Now her inner thighs were covered with it. He watched her as she leaned over, picked up the piece of fabric that used to be her knickers, and wiped it away. 

Coincidently, a drop had landed on the initials LV. At once, all of the unease surrounding the overheard conversation in Cygnus Black’s office rushed through her. _He is at Hogwarts_ , he’d said. Who else besides Riddle could it be? Everyone else was under his control. Was it honestly surprising that his rule would extend beyond the castle? 

And the more disturbing questions: If he was so capable and willing to order what the Knights were carrying out, what else could do? What would he do to _her_ if he found out she knew? 

She lifted her head and saw that Riddle was still watching her, now staring at her intently. Her heart kickstarted again as she wondered whether he could perform Legilimency without eye contact. She hadn’t felt any tugging in her mind at all.

He took the balled-up cloth from her hand and threw it in the fire. Though he didn’t look angry, she couldn’t decipher his facial expression at all. “Lie on the bed,” he told her calmly. 

Hortensia obeyed, pulling the cover over her chest, tucking it under her arms. After about twenty minutes of ignoring her, drinking from his goblet, Riddle moved to the edge of the bed and placed a hand on her heart, which was showing no signs of slowing down. 

“I think,” he said softly, “I must speak to Cygnus about throwing my proper name around at the Ministry.”

Her heartbeat was in her ears now; surely he could feel it through the cover. Her lungs froze, filled with air. So he could perform Legilimency without eye contact—not very surprising, either. 

“Ah yes, now there’s the proper fear,” Riddle said with a smirk of satisfaction. He lifted his hand from her chest and pulled the cover down to trace the tiny initials with his fingertips. 

“Your obedience is more important than any of your feelings toward me,” he continued, gazing down at the letters. “It’s not as if you have any other choice. These letters weren’t put in place just to mark you. They bind you to me, so there is nowhere in the world you can go where I won’t find you.”

He looked up at her and chuckled at her dumbfounded expression. “That’s right, Hortensia, I own you now, and I’ve got full control over my property. Oh, I was wrong—you do have another choice. You can speak out or attempt resistance, both of which will lead to death.”

His fingers curled around her jaw, digging into her cheeks and squeezing her lips together. The cool expression turned predatory, a sparkle of greed in his eyes as they took her in. “And it won’t be a simple Killing Curse. I’ll have quite a bit of fun with my toy before that.” 

He kissed her harshly, tugging her stinging lips between his. Then he let go and tossed the cover carelessly over her before returning to the chair. 

Trembling from head to toe, Hortensia cocooned herself into the cover and turned on her side, facing the curved stone wall. It felt as if icy pellets were circulating through her heart and veins as his words replayed themselves in her mind. She was his toy, not his lover. He’d told her that many times before, yet she disregarded it. Why was it only hitting her now? 

Many hours later, despite the pain and constant shaking, she finally fell asleep. When she woke up a few hours later, the sun was peeking through the heavy dark curtain and the room was empty, save for her. She’d never seen Riddle sleeping before, since he was always gone when she awakened. 

Hortensia sat up and rubbed her eyes, looking around for her clothes, already knowing they were gone, too. He wanted her to go upstairs naked, continuing his game even after he left. Yet she continued to glance around until her eyes fell on a folded piece of paper resting against the lamp on the bedside table. _Hortensia_ , it said on the front. 

Carefully, she pulled it open and read the single line: _Remember, this is what’s best for you, darling._

She stared at it for a moment, legs draped over the side of the bed, before puffing out a breath and standing up. As quickly as she could, she shot up the stairs and bolted into the bathroom. 

After a long bath, Hortensia took her seat next to the window, nibbling on a piece of toast. A few bites into it, her stomach turned into knots, disallowing her to finish. On the windowsill, the note rested next to her arm. The heaviness in her chest would not subside; in fact, it was rapidly intensifying, cutting off her breath. 

Breathe, she told herself, get it together. To distract herself, she looked out onto the grounds, concentrating on the calm rippling of the lake. 

Though the note was supposed to be comforting, Hortensia couldn’t help but see it as an underlining of Riddle’s cruelty. He was the Dark Lord, he’d bound her without her knowledge, he disregarded her safety time and time again… He played with her like a toy… He did not love her. 

He chose her, not for her beauty, attributes, or anything special about her, but because she fit the criteria he needed. Pureblood, left by her family, and easy to control. In essence, there wasn’t another witch so appropriately suited to the position. _This is what’s best for you_ , according to Riddle. 

No, she thought, this is what’s best for _him._

She shifted her gaze to the yellowing grass, where students were trotting across or lounging about. The weather was pleasant for the end of the summer, warm, judging by the absence of cloaks. She missed the sunshine, the trees, her friends, hearty laughter, silly teenage drama… She was only eighteen and to her, the years were passing as she stood still. They would continue to do so for the rest of her days, unless by some miracle, she was let free. 

For the first time since February 1962, when she’d first been taken to the headmaster’s office by Professor Slughorn, Hortensia wished she could return to a time before that night and proceed differently. 

*********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> I hope you enjoyed this sordid little tale. This is my first sail into E-rated water so any opinion/suggestions about it would be awesome. Thanks for reading!  
> Sincerely,  
> Atypical16


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